


The Game is On... Again.

by MindEraserTimeWaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Other, Physical Disability, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:25:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22427950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindEraserTimeWaster/pseuds/MindEraserTimeWaster
Summary: The repercussions of Sherrinford have left everyone feeling lost, confused and tired. Sherlock makes a poor decision, Greg and Mycroft become closer, John finds comfort in a new face and Molly works tirelessly to keep everyone afloat. Eurus's plans are not over though and she refuses to just go back to the life she lived before. She issues a challenge to Sherlock, and he accepts. Things will never be the same again. Sherlock and his friends may burn out for good. Retirement may be right around the corner.
Relationships: Eurus Holmes & Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Eurus Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Irene Adler/Eurus Holmes, John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Molly Hooper & Jim Moriarty, Molly Hooper & Mary Morstan, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter One: A Revolution of Habit

The line had suddenly disconnected. Molly stood frozen in her kitchen. Her hands were shaking, and her knuckles had gone white as she gripped her mobile. From the other room, she could hear Rosie beginning to stir from her nap, but she seemed so far away. Her cries finally stirred Molly to action. She walked through her apartment feeling like a ghost.  
Rosie was shrieking in her small little bed. Her face was scrunched up and blotchy. Molly scooped up the small Watson and held her close to her chest. She realized, perhaps too late, that she wasn’t in the right state of mind to be caring for her godchild. She was supposed to be soothing the toddler not adding her own tears to the mix, but she just couldn’t help it. She slumped against the wall in the makeshift nursery, rocking the small child in her arms, the two of them sobbing.  
After too many minutes Molly steeled herself. She looked at the child in her lap and realized, not for the first time, that she had shed too many tears over Sherlock. She softly kissed Rosie’s head and wiped the girl's face with her sleeve. Slowly Rosie’s cries and wails subsided, and she dozed off once more. The poor girl was teething and somehow Molly suspected that the brilliant bundle in her arms knew that her daddy was too far away, and her mother too far gone.  
Somehow, she managed the rest of the day with Rosie without thinking too much about Sherlock. Thankfully Rosie had always supplied Molly with plenty of distraction. She knew it wouldn’t be much longer before Greg would come and pick her up for his turn to watch the baby. John had dropped Rosie off in a rush and assured her that Greg would come by after his shift to watch Rosie. Another case no doubt. Her thoughts drifted to what that case might be… why Sherlock had a need to perform his “experiment”. She suddenly felt like she might be sick. She never quite managed to keep her thoughts from him for terribly long.  
‘Stupid girl,’ she thought to herself.  
“Rosie promise me you won’t be silly like your stupid Auntie. She’s been so silly,” she cooed at the little girl.  
Rosie giggled and threw her special teething treats at Molly’s face. She supposed she probably deserved that. She looked at the little clock above the stove. It was nearly 8 o’clock. Greg was running over an hour late. She tried not to be a pest but supposed she was owed an explanation after an hour. She reached for her phone and groaned, realizing that she hadn’t bothered to charge it at all since…  
Molly felt her stomach drop thinking back to the phone call.  
“I love you… ``I love you”  
Such a cruel man. Stupid, selfish man. How could he do such a thing to her? She thought that after so many years that he maybe had cared enough now about her to stop his cruel comments but perhaps she was really the stupid one.  
Molly was suddenly jolted from herself loathing by a pounding on the door.  
“Molly! Molly open up! It’s Greg!”  
“Greg?” she called. Greg had pounded on her door like that enough times to know that there was something wrong and usually that meant it was something to do with Sherlock. She pulled the door open to find Greg looking rather ruffled and clearly distressed.  
“Greg, what’s wrong?”  
“Molly you’re never going to believe it…”  
“Just tell me what’s wrong! Are they ok?”  
“Yes, Molly they’re all fine but we’ve got to go now.”  
Molly turned on her heel and began to rush toward Rosie who was still making a mess of her snacks in the kitchen.  
“Molly! Where are you going?”  
She ignored him and scooped up Rosie and hurried back out the door.  
“Christ! Rosie was here that whole time?” he cried incredulously, following closely on her heels.  
“Well yes of course. Where else would she be? What’s the big deal?”  
Greg reached for her shoulder and spun her around. Molly was startled by this, her eyes widening.  
“Molly, they thought your flat was rigged with bombs. If John had known…”  
“Greg, what are you on about?!” Molly was angry now. They always left her out of the loop. Always so concerned with a case to stop and communicate anything to anyone else. Least of all her.  
Greg huffed, “I can’t explain it all now. I only have half of it anyhow. Just c’mon.”  
She followed Lestrade, Rosie in her arms, to the black police car that was waiting on the street. He opened the door to the back seat for her and she dipped her head and ducked in. She was shocked to find a rather disheveled looking Mycroft Holmes in the passenger seat.  
“Hello, Miss Hooper. I trust you’re quite alright.”  
She had met the elder Holmes on a few occasions, mostly when Sherlock had been in the hospital for one reason or another. He had always been rather formal and most certainly icy but somehow, beyond his appearance, he seemed distant.  
“Yes, fine thank you.”  
“Good.” His eyes remained fixed to the horizon as Greg settled himself into the driver's seat. He turned to look at Mycroft, worriedly. He then shifted the car into gear, and they drove off into the night.  
Sensing no one was in the mood to chat, Molly simply cradled Rosie and watched the city lights of London fade out of sight.  
\--  
John watched Sherlock. He was pacing back and forth.  
“You should let them treat your hand.”  
“Why.”  
“Well for starters it will probably get infected.”  
“So?”  
“So… I thought you might want to keep your fingers.”  
Sherlock stopped troddening the grass. John motioned for one of the EMT’s who was tending to him. The woman hurried over to Sherlock and began to examine his hands as John watched from the back of the ambulance.  
Sherlock studied the sky as she did so. John imagined he was trying to ignore the pain in his hands.  
“You have severely bruised knuckles…”  
“Yes, yes. Just bandage them up already. Ice and aspirin and whatnot,” he hissed at the poor EMT. She dipped her head and began cleaning his hands and wrapped them, her blue eyes twinkling with a smile.  
\--  
John had only been partially correct. His hands did in fact hurt but that was not what pained him most. There was so much to process, and his mind palace did not seem big enough to cope with all these… things buzzing around his head. Most prominent was the urge to stop thinking. God, he had to find a way to shut it off. If only he could…  
He really shouldn’t though. But he really needed to.  
“ARGGG” he pushed the EMT’s hands away.  
“Sorry, Mr. Holmes,” she mumbled as he pushed past her towards one of the police cars.  
“Oi! Where you goin’,” John shouted after him, but Sherlock had already disappeared into the morning mist.  
“To do the right thing, John!”  
\--  
John was in a right awful mood when he reached Mycroft’s estate. He had been there only once before, and just like last time, he wasn’t in the mood to admire the seat of the British government. Greg had assured him that Rosie and Molly were both there safe and sound. Mrs. Hudson had brought over spare clothes and a diaper bag for his daughter. He found both Molly and his daughter in the larger drawing-room at the opposite side of the house, where he and Sherlock only two nights ago had tricked Mycroft into revealing Eurus. The early morning sun hit her soft reddish-blonde curls as she lay, bundled up in Molly’s arms.  
“John? Where’s Sherlock? What’s going on?” Molly looked up at him, clearly exhausted and looking...gutted.  
John sank to his knees in front of Molly and his child. He held out his arms and Molly gently placed Rosie into them. His body shuddered with silent tears as he held his daughter close to his chest. She squirmed in his arms, gurgling and trying to grab hold of his nose. He smiled through his tears and planted a kiss on her forehead.  
“Thank you, Molly.”  
“John,” she placed a hand on his shoulder, tears slipping down her cheeks, “what’s happened? Where’s…”  
“I don’t know where the stupid bastard went. He took off. Probably to get high…” John’s anger suddenly seemed to fizzle out, too tired to be angry with his friend, who it seemed had not gone to do the right thing. “I don’t blame him. Not after the day we’ve had.”  
Molly shot up from the chair by the window, startling John from his stooper.  
“Molly! Where are you going?”  
“To Baker Street!”  
“It’s blown up, Molly. There’s nothing left.”  
She paused for a breath at the door frame. She wasn’t really sure what she was doing. Molly just knew that she needed to be with Sherlock, like a dull ache in the pit of her stomach, pulling her towards him. It was almost instinctual, unable to control it.  
\--  
It hadn’t been hard to acquire them. Took him one stop at a filthy condemned house to find the escape he needed. He now lay flat in the rubble of his home, ash floating around him like freshly fallen snow. He had always loved snow.  
“Sherlock?”  
‘Molly?”  
Oh, how the mind plays tricks. Or rather the heart does. He wished Molly was here. All the times he’d been high like this, he had wished she was there. She was always a better alternative to drugs. Or maybe she was a drug. That would have made more sense, he thought. But there was no way Molly could have actually been there because the was impossible after what he had done. He had finally succeeded, he suspected, in pushing away Molly Hooper for good.  
“Sherlock!”  
His head jolted up as if he had been shocked. His eyes locked onto her face as if drawn by a magnet. She appeared to be moving in slow motion. His drug-addled brain wasn’t playing tricks he deduced, rather shocked that she wasn’t simply a wishful hallucination. Her chestnut hair was falling from her ponytail and she had dark circles under her eyes. Lack of sleep. Puffy eyes from crying. Flushed from rushing up the stairs. These deductions where sluggish, slower that in a sober state.  
“Molly? What are you doing here?” he asked dully, as if waking from a dream.  
She crashed onto the floor next to him, grabbing his face in her hands.  
“You’re stupid idiot! What did you do?” she hissed at him. Sherlock was utterly transfixed by her face.  
Her voice sounded far off. She was looking at his pupils, checking his vitals. Her hands felt so warm on his face. Her eyes looked like warm chocolates. He loved chocolates. He loved how they melted on his tongue. He wondered what Molly would taste like. Surely sweet? It was Molly. Surely.  
“What have you taken!” Molly shook his head like she was literally trying to rattle his brain.  
Ouch! Maybe dark chocolate. A little bitter perhaps. Only one way to find out. Sherlock suddenly reached for Molly’s bottom lip with his pointer finger as if he was going to try to retrieve melted chocolate from the back of a spoon. He then looked into her eyes. She looked startled and suddenly unsure. Was she afraid?  
“Don’t be afraid, Molly.”  
“I’m not afraid of you, Sherlock!” She nearly growled it at him, her eyes suddenly fierce and angry again.  
So, he kissed her. He wasn’t really sure that he was truly kissing her. It didn’t feel like something he would do. Sherlock had spent many years thinking about what it would be like to kiss Molly but had always known she was off-limits. Far too dangerous. Yet here he was, kissing Molly. How had this happened? Where had all his walls gone?  
\--  
It had surprised her. His kiss. It was so urgent, so sudden, so fierce. It had caught her entirely off guard. She hadn’t realized that she was kissing him back until it was too late, having been enjoying this kiss. She pulled away, pushing against his chest.  
“Molly…” he said breathlessly.  
“Sherlock please…” she pleaded. She had to get him to a doctor. He was clearly off his rocker. High as a kite. He would have never kissed her. Not if he were in the right state of mind. She knew that, her heart was still pounding in her chest. This was not what she should want to do right now.  
“No, Molly. Please! Please let me kiss you. Just this once. Let me make it up to you.” he seemed rather frantic now.  
Molly was utterly shocked. Her mouth hung open. He took that as sanction enough. He pressed his lips to hers again. She still had his face in her hands. She felt high too, she supposed. She couldn’t think straight at all. So, it all just happened. Neither of them completely able to stop what Sherlock had set in motion.  
\--  
Sherlock wanted always to remember how it felt to touch her. To hold the small of her neck, the feel of her silky hair against his aching fingertips. To pull her into his lap and feel his finger wrap around her waist. Sherlock’s hand slid down further to the hem of her jumper. They both came up for air, breathless and staring into each other's eyes. He then pulled up her jumper, pulling it over her head. Was this finally happening?  
\--  
Oh god, why couldn’t I have been wearing something sexier? She was just wearing one of those silly cotton bralettes. Unable to truly process her embarrassment, Molly was caught off guard yet again by Sherlock’s kiss, this time one that was softer, perhaps lazier. He kissed her softly and she could no longer restrain herself. Her hands found their way into his curls. He slowly shifted their position and gently laid her on her back. His fingers trailed lower from her neck, tracing her collar bone, her sternum. His fingers traced the edge of her bra. She whimpered  
\--  
He lost it then. That whimper set something loose. He was suddenly unhinged. He gripped her then, her breast fitting perfectly against his palm. His other hand gripped her bottom. He felt her fingers leave his hair, felt them start tearing at the buttons on his shirt.  
Oh, Molly… What are you doing to me? He couldn’t think. The drugs were nothing compared to kissing Molly. Oh, maybe he was just incredibly high and imagining this whole thing. A groan slipped from his lips when she managed to undo his belt.  
It occurred to him at that moment that she had been the first to make him make such a noise. Never before had he engaged in such activities for pleasure. Why had he not? This feeling was… something else for sure. Perhaps because he hadn’t ever thought to do this with anyone but Molly. And now he was with Molly. Oh, Molly. How did she manage to get under his skin so easily?  
He then decided he needed to be in her, like she was already in him, his body untethered simply with her touch. He yanked at her leggings urgently and perhaps none too softly. She gasped and clung to his hip bone as if bracing herself. He reached for her then, tracing a finger down, splitting her in half. She felt like soft velvet. His hand glided between her.  
“Sherlock?”  
His eyes found her. Was she scared? No. He decided she was unsure. But also pleading. He knew that at the very least, her body was responding in such a way that he knew she wanted him. Or at least wanted to use him for some kind of release or punishment from before. To let him have this and then leave for good, forever lost to him. He didn’t care at the moment, just needing to have it once. Just once was enough.  
So, he obliged a silent urging from Molly’s fingertips. He enjoyed all of it. Every second, for as many as he could for her, wanting to savor and draw out every moment, slowly and passionately.  
\--  
Molly couldn’t believe what was happening, she continued to look between them. He caught the back of her neck pulling her mouth towards him, kissing her deeply. She never could have imagined how good this felt, to finally have this. Even if he never bothered with her again. She just wanted this. Just once. That was all she had needed. She knew he could never possibly want anything more with an ordinary, lonely pathologist who had always been pushed away.  
\--  
Sherlock pressed his forehead to hers, wanting to connect themselves in as many ways as possible. He had to feel every inch of her. She was so much better than he had ever imagined, all those dark nights alone in the emptiness of his flat. He hoped that maybe… no that was impossible. He could survive with just this moment. Just the knowledge of her. Sherlock finally knew this secret. How his Molly felt in his arms. To be his, and to be hers.  
\--  
Sherlock fell against her. His heart rate pounded in her ear. Her own heart she was sure was about to burst from her chest.  
“Just heroin.”  
“What.”  
“I just administered heroin. Maybe too much.”  
It was as if something awoke inside her. She shoved Sherlock off. He rolled off her, his shirt still open revealing his pale chest. He was still wearing his coat, his trousers askew. She looked down at herself, her own torso on display. Her leggings were at her ankles. She furiously yanked them up.  
“Get up.”  
“Why, Molly? Can’t we just sit here a bit? I don’t need doctors yet.”  
“I don’t care. Get up,” he groaned and pushed himself up to his elbows, “Sherlock, I swear. “  
“Fine and do what exactly Molly? What do you want from me?”  
“What do I want?! I want you to get up, call a cab and get to the bloody hospital.”  
“And then what.”  
“Leave me the hell alone until you’re thinking straight.”  
So, he did. He zipped up his trousers and left the flat, chest still bare to the world.  
Molly then curled her knees to her chest and sobbed worse than she could ever remember sobbing.  
\--  
Mrs. Hudson found Molly there hours later. She was curled in a heap on the floor, her jumper filthy with ash.  
“Oh, Molly! For heaven's sake what happened to you?”  
“Sherlock,” she said quietly.  
The poor girl was quite still. Mrs. Hudson crouched next to her and helped her to a sitting position. She was quite sure that she was going to give Sherlock a good talking to when she saw her tenant next.  
\--

Mycroft stared out the window of the living room in his suite. It was nearly sunset. Miss Hooper had been returned to the house about two hours ago and Greg had made the executive decision that they all ought to stay here at the estate while Mycroft’s agents combed through all their respective homes and workplaces. He couldn’t argue with that logic, for it was indeed quite logical. Greg also informed John and Mycroft that Sherlock was in the hospital having suffered a near overdose. John had sworn while Mycroft had just stared out the window.  
His eyes always seemed to draw themselves off to the horizon while he was off in his own mind. A prison that was much different than the one his sister had locked him in. He then heard a knock on his door.  
“Mycroft?”  
“Yes, Detective Lestrade?”  
“Would you… uh… do you want to take a walk? Fresh air would do you some good I think.”  
“Do you think?” there was the faintest wisp of sarcasm in his voice but also tired irritation.  
“I do…”  
“Fine. Walk with me then. If it does so much good.”  
“Alright.’  
\--  
John knocked on the door. There were so many rooms and this was perhaps the fifth he had knocked on hoping it was the room that Molly was going to be staying in. He pushed the door open to find Molly’s form curled under the covers of a giant bed on the other side of the suite. It made her look so small. She was on the very edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the sunset, but empty.  
“Molly…”  
“John, what do I do?” she whispered.  
“About Sherlock?”  
“Yes.”  
“Did he tell you what happened?”  
“John, tell me everything please.”  
\--  
“I’m so horrible.”  
“Molly, you’re not horrible.”  
“I was so mad that I didn’t even ask why.”  
“Molly, please stop. It’s not worth it. You couldn’t have known what happened.”  
She was sitting up in bed now, hugging her knees to her chest. John sat on the edge of the bed. She felt so very numb. The cold shower she had taken upon her return had left her shivering and the robe Mycroft had supplied wasn’t enough to keep her warm. She felt so very cold.  
“John.”  
He looked at her. She was so unsure how to tell him what she had done. What she had let Sherlock, in his drug-addled state, do. She hadn’t been high. She should have known better.  
“John, I let him kiss me… and uh...”  
John's hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles turning white as he shook his head, not wanting to hear anymore. He looked murderous. She reached for his hand.  
“I swear if he…”  
“No, John of course not. You know I always… fancied him,” her eyes were downcast, embarrassed.  
“Molly, it's not your fault. We both know how you feel. And if we’re being honest… I think he knew how he felt too.”  
Molly wasn’t sure what to make of what John said. She was so tired that it wasn’t worth thinking about. She pulled her hand away and receded back into the covers and pillows. She felt small. She was. How pathetic she felt.  
\--  
221B Baker Street had never been in worse shape. Mrs. Hudson had already called the renovators and had given them strict instructions to make sure everything looked exactly as it had before the bomb had blown the sitting room to bits. Sherlock hadn’t thanked her for it. Thankfully his bedroom was fully intact, but a fair bit dusty. He never let Mrs. Hudson dust in his room or tidy it in any way. He wished she had though. It didn’t help his mood to return to such a disgusting state. But then again, he supposed it matched his overall attitude towards himself and surely how his friends felt towards him. John had visited him a few times while he detoxed. He brought Rosie the last time and she had looked positively ecstatic to see her godfather again. John had been cross at first but had seemed to have forgiven him after the second visit. Sherlock had actually stayed throughout the whole detox program this time.  
He collapsed onto his bed, a puff of dust exploding into the air as he did so. He would have to clean it quite soon. Or maybe have someone else come to do it. Mrs. Hudson was still furious with him. Furious over his treatment of…  
Molly…  
He had spent many hours thinking of her. Sherlock had expected to have her come visit him in the hospital but realized after the first couple days that she would not be coming to see him like she had so many other times. He hadn’t thought they actually had done anything, believing it to just be another trip. John was flabbergasted that Sherlock hadn’t remembered. This left him with a terrible feeling of loneliness and even worse, longing. He never expressed to John how much he missed Molly. He had only asked about her once, fearing the consequences of his actions that could potentially result in losing her forever.  
“She’s not doing so well actually. She took some time away from Barts and has been staying with Mycroft.”  
“Mycroft? Why would she be there?”  
“Well we’ve all been staying there. It’s the only place that feels… well safe after everything.”  
“Oh.”  
What on earth was he to do about all this? For the first time, he felt entirely lost. Sherlock felt so lost and empty. Suddenly his phone buzzed in his pocket.  
“Yes?”  
“Hey, err it’s Greg.”  
“Ok?”  
“Do you mind coming over to Mycroft’s? We’ve got a bit of a situation and needed your help.”  
“My help?”  
“Uh… Yea… we can’t figure out this puzzle Mycroft is having us do and he’s being a stubborn ass about it. John thought you could help us.” Greg was doing his best not to sound awkward.  
“Why didn’t John call?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.  
“He’s uh up in a tree,” Greg chuckled.  
“Is Molly there?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.  
“Somewhere I bet. Here or Barts I would imagine.’  
“Oh.”  
“So, you’ll come?”  
“Yea”  
\--  
Greg hung up and grinned at Mycroft. Mycroft smirked back at him; his hands tucked into his jeans. Greg still found it strange to see the puppeteer of the British government in jeans. The more time he spent at the estate the more he was surprised by the elder Holmes. Whether it had anything to do with Eurus or simply his extended interactions, Greg had noticed more differences in Mycroft. He was less cold. It was if he couldn’t be left alone with his thoughts for company.  
Regardless, he was glad that between Mycroft, John and himself that they had found a way to coax Sherlock over to the estate. John had felt it was time to bring Sherlock into their new little arrangement. If that was what it was to be called.  
Greg had indeed gotten used to being ‘round the estate. He spent nearly all his time outside of work here. He took his dinner with John, Molly, Rosie, and Mycroft and took walks around the garden with Mycroft and bounced Rosie on his knee by the patio firepit on warm summer nights. It was like having a family again, granted a strange patchwork family, but one all the same.  
“I suppose we should set our little trap then, darling.” Mycroft started off towards the house.  
Darling had become Mycroft’s little pet name for Greg. He supposed he didn’t mind it. It was actually kind of nice after so many years without any sort of endearments from anyone. Even if it was from a man who seemed to be unreachable.  
\--  
Sherlock looked at Greg like he had three heads…  
“You needed my help with this? Really, Lestrade, are you that daft.”  
“Suppose so,” Greg replied grinning at Sherlock.  
Mycroft felt his chest tighten a bit seeing Greg smile at his brother. Indeed, such a strange feeling after years of repression. He thought it rather ingenious the simple plot that John had come up with. Mycroft had made a scavenger hunt in the garden for John and Greg to attempt to solve. John informed them that Sherlock could never turn down a scavenger hunt. This particular one hinged on a rather terrific prize: a very expensive, very rare bottle of whiskey.  
“So?” Greg said, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock.  
“Did you even bother checking the whiskey stores?”  
Greg and John looked at one another, their faces mirrored each other’s shock. Greg then turned to Mycroft and threw an acorn at him that he had picked up while John and he had tramped around the garden.  
“You said it was in the garden!”  
“I said a walk in the garden would be lovely.”  
“Greg, all that matters is that we can drink now. Go on and get it, mate,” John said as he pulled Greg away.  
\--  
Molly was having an awful day. She woke up feeling sick and everything was achy. She thought she must have slept wrong but was happy to finally be sleeping again. For weeks after… well, she hadn’t slept really at all. The past few days though that she had been so exhausted after work that she near collapsed into bed at night.  
Work was the only thing outside of watching Rosie that could distract her from Sherlock. Somehow though, work wasn’t helping. In fact, it was making her feel quite sick. God, she felt so nauseous.  
“Molly you look awful.”  
“Thank you, Mike. I appreciate it.”  
“Maybe you should leave a bit early today,” he pressed giving her a worried look over the rim of his glasses.  
“Really, I’m fine…” and then she threw up.  
The woman at the pharmacy didn’t bat an eye when Molly placed three different brands of pregnancy tests on the counter. Molly on the other hand felt extremely self-conscious. She desperately hoped Mycroft’s people would have enough discretion to not mention it to the elder Holmes brother. Oh god, if Mycroft knew. She wasn’t even sure she knew how he’d react. He’d been so different lately.  
But she supposed they all had.  
She hurried back to her borrowed car. Mycroft had so many different cars and told her to borrow whichever she liked to transport her to and from Bart’s. She had to admit, she quite liked living at the estate. Mycroft had insisted on taking care of everything. He offered to buy new clothes and she had accepted. Her closet in the estate was now filled with soft new jumpers and lovely pajamas. Some of her things had been brought over but it was nice to be treated so kindly after everything. The elder Holmes seemed to enjoy heaping gifts upon her. He had explained once that it was the least he could do after all she has done for all of them.  
She wrapped her fuzzy peach cardigan tighter around her waist and briskly walked to the car.  
When she pulled into the gravel driveway, she suddenly felt so very terrified. It was one thing to think of the potential and the possibility of it being true, but now she was far too close to finding out whether or not it was true. She wasn’t sure it was what she wanted or not.  
She heard them laughing in the drawing-room. It was good to hear John and Greg laughing. They had been doing it more and more lately. Mycroft too seemed to be smiling more now. Everyone else seemed to be healing just fine, while she seemed to just be rotting.  
“Hello! I’m home.”  
“Ah we’re in here, Molly,” called Mycroft. She could hear the smile in his voice.  
“Molly come have a drink with us!!!” Greg shouted jollily.  
Oh god, they were drinking. She tried to hide her smile. She wasn’t sure who from though. She glided towards the drawing-room, carefully tucking the pharmacy bag into her tote. Her boys, she smiled to herself, where they were all lounging on the floor, whiskey glasses not far from reach, with smiles on their faces.  
“Hello, Molly.”  
She froze. The room had suddenly gone still. She turned and was face to face with Sherlock. He offered her a soft smile.  
“I did as you said. Detoxed. Clean.”  
Oh god she thought she might faint.  
“Do you think we could talk?” he asked her gingerly, taking a step forward.  
She took a step back. Why today? Of all the days? There had been so many days that she had wished he would turn up but with everything else… why today? So, she decided that she wasn’t going to deal with it today. Molly Hooper turned and walked to the stairs. She hurried to her room and closed the door behind her. Almost instantly there was a knock at the door.  
“Please, Molly.”  
She closed her eyes, the door keeping her upright. She wasn’t sure she'd be standing if the door wasn’t there to lean on. Then, suddenly she was falling backward and into Sherlock’s arms. She shrieked when he pulled the door open and by the look on his face, she realized that he wasn’t expecting to have her fall into his arms.  
“Please, Molly. I need to tell you everything. I owe you an explanation.”  
“And what if I don’t want it?”  
“Then I’ll leave you alone.”  
“Promise?”  
“Yes, I promise,” he said helping her back to her feet. She turned to look at him. He looked so dreadfully sad. It made her heartache. Her poor Sherlock.  
“So just tell me one thing… Did you mean it?”  
“Yes.”  
“Don’t lie to me.”  
“I am not lying.” She looked into his eyes as he said this. She saw the tears welling up in his blue eyes. She felt them in her eyes too. He took a deep breath.  
“Molly… I have done terrible things,” he took a step toward her, “and I don’t deserve even the smallest fraction of your love in return…” he closed the space between them, their toes touching, “ but I want you to know that regardless of how you feel about me, I intend to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of any sort of affection or friendship you deem me worthy of.”  
Tears were streaming down her face. Oh god. Was she dying? She thought she might be. Or maybe going into shock.  
\--  
Please say something  
Oh god Molly, please  
There was a soft thud.  
She must have dropped her tote. He knelt down to fetch it for her. The tote had spilled its contents onto the floor.  
Why would...oh.  
\--  
John wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Molly was knelt next to Sherlock on the floor. He was lying sprawled in the middle of the threshold.  
“Molly? Is everything alright?”  
“Eh… ya he just fainted. Um. Well you help me move him to the bed?”  
“Sure.” he looked at Molly, completely uncertain of what was going on.  
\--  
They moved him to the bed together. John scooped up her tote as he went back to the door, which Molly quickly snatched and thanked John. She said she’d watch over him. He nodded and left looking awfully confused. Molly then went to her bathroom and got a cold cloth for Sherlock’s forehead. She realized it had almost been a godsend that he had fainted. It maybe would give her some time to think over what he had said.  
She was quite sure though that she didn’t know how to think. Or what to do. He would come to eventually and she would have to give him some sort of answer and probably an explanation. She pressed the cloth to his head, pushing back his dark curls. He did look much healthier now. Still so handsome that it made her heart hurt. Why did he have to be so handsome?  
\--  
Sherlock tentatively reached for her hand. He kept his eyes shut, quite sure that he could get sick.  
“Molly…?”  
“Yes, Sherlock.”  
“Are you…?”  
“I don’t know. I haven’t had the time to check. It only just occurred to me today. I just thought maybe I was depressed. I felt so alone and sad. I just… uh missed you. But I’ve hated you too. John told me everything… I just wasn’t sure I could believe it. And you were so high, and I should have…” she was rambling.  
“Molly.”  
He opened his eyes slowly. Sherlock took her in for about the millionth time in his life. He looked at her so often when they were working together, trying to remember every inch of her and trying to understand every thought she may or may not be having. But for the first time, he wasn’t trying to read her. He just wanted to look at her. She did indeed look sad. She had dark circles under her eyes and her skin looked paler than usual. Her hair was windswept and, as always, trying to escape from her hair tie. His beautiful Molly.  
Oh god what was he to do. His poor beautiful Molly had been so hurt. And he had done it to her. He was a monster. His stomach sank further at the other thing that was between them. The potential. The baby. Oh god, a baby. His baby? He sat up. Sherlock reached for her soft, delicate chin and tilted her face up. Her eyes met his.  
“I love you, Molly.” He kissed her gently. She was salty from all the tears. It didn’t matter though. He just wanted her to know. To really understand. With everything else to worry about, everything else that needed to be said, he had to make absolutely certain that Molly knew how much he loved her. How he always had.  
\--  
They remained like that for some hours, wrapped in each other’s arms. Quite unwilling to let go or move in any way.  
“Greg?” Mycroft asked gingerly.  
“Mhh?”  
“Was it the whiskey?”  
They had all gotten tremendously rip-roaring drunk. Even Mycroft had been slurring his words. John had retired first, stumbling up the stairs singing. Just the two of them had remained in the drawing-room, making ridiculous commentary on “the state of things”. When Mycroft finally found it hard to keep sitting up straight, his eyes becoming lazy, Greg had offered to walk him up to his room. They seemed to walk everywhere together now.  
When Mycroft had turned to say his goodbyes, Greg had just kissed him. Full-on the lips and it had taken him entirely by surprise. He had deduced some time ago that Greg seemed to be open to the prospect of male companionship but Mycroft never thought it possible to be the object of any man’s attention. Least of all Greg Lestrade’s.  
“Well yeah,” Greg mumbled into Mycroft's pillow. “Course…”  
“Oh”  
“How else was I supposed to pluck up the nerve.”  
Mycroft was sure his icy heart had perhaps begun to beat. How on earth was he to process all this with his stupid heart pounding away in his chest? He had bought himself a companion before but had never felt anything but indifference. He supposed they could have gone as far as he had with the hired companion, but Mycroft and Greg had simply been kissing. Both too drunk to undo either of their trousers, he supposed. Pity.  
Greg suddenly pulled Mycroft a little closer and buried his face into Mycroft’s neck. This of course made Mycroft uncomfortable, particularly at the idea of Greg sensing his rising pulse. Mycroft didn’t enjoy not having the upper hand, especially if it considered his heart.  
The detective didn’t discover Mycroft's rising pulse but distinctly noticed his body going rigid. Greg wasn’t a complete idiot and detached himself slowly.  
“I suppose I’d better go then,” he mumbled.  
“You’re still drunk. You cannot drive.” Mycroft didn’t want him to leave. Not yet.  
“I’ll crash next door then.”  
“Fine.”  
Mycroft didn’t move as Greg removed himself from the room. He listened as the door across from his open and slam shut and soon after the hiss of the shower. Why hadn’t he just pretended to be normal? Just once. It would make life, particularly this aspect of life easier.  
\--  
Molly had dozed off in Sherlock’s arms, drifting off to the sound of his now steady heartbeat. She dreamed. Unlike most adults, Molly often dreamed and remembered them very clearly. This dream was of a little boy with dark curls running along the beach. There was a handsome looking basset hound pup trailing after the boy, trying so very hard to keep up. The boy was chasing after a tall dark man, with similar curls.  
“Daddy!”  
Sherlock turned and smiled down at the small boy. He picked him up and placed him on his shoulders, the boy shrieking in delight. They continued to walk further away down the beach, their words lost in the wind.  
She suddenly jolted awake, startling Sherlock.  
“Molly, what’s wrong?”  
She couldn’t see his face in the dark but could hear his concern. He didn’t try to pull her back to bed. She crossed the room to the bathroom and reached for a piss pot. She always had one on hand since she first had been asked to drug test Sherlock. This time though, she’d be using it on herself.  
After filling it as best she could, she proceeded to open several tests. Nine in total and dipped each into the piss pot and laid each one on the floor. She then stood and returned to Sherlock's arms. She wasn’t sure she really had it in her to look for herself.  
“Shall I make a deduction?” he asked softly into the darkroom.  
“Well that’s what you do isn’t it?”  
“You’ve had trouble sleeping and only recently have you been able to. You’ve been working yourself to the bone since returning to Bart’s in an attempt to distract yourself, both evident from the dark circles under your eyes. Your body is achy but your breasts more than anything else, this is due to the fact that you removed your bra while I was unconscious. You’ve only gotten sick once, which caused you to suspect you may be pregnant, but you’ve been feeling sick for a few days now. That combined with the fact that you’re normally a bit more bloated if you had your monthly cycle led you to make your own deductions.”  
“So am I?”  
“Let's find out, Dr. Hooper.” he whispered and made his way towards the bathroom.  
Her heart was dancing in her chest. When he opened the door, the soft golden light lit the room in a soft glow. Sherlock’s face was flat. An icy mask.  
Oh god. He was going to tell her that she wasn’t. Tears started sliding down her cheeks.  
“Molly. Do you want to have a baby?”  
“Yes,” she breathed.  
“Even if I’m the father.”  
“Yes, Sherlock.”  
He crossed the room, taking her up in his arms, “Congratulations, Miss Hooper.” He planted a kiss on her cheek, wiping away her tears. He held her as she softly cried into his shirt.  
“It’s alright, Molly. I’m here.”  
She held onto him, wrapping her arms tight around his waist.  
“You have to tell me everything, Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Ok. I will. But first, let's rest”  
\--  
Sherlock gently laid her down on the massive four-poster bed and tucked her into his arms. She dozed off on his arm, her hands intertwined in his. She looked so peaceful. Sherlock wondered, knowing it was impossible if he could sense the small life. He gently placed his other hand between her hips. Though he felt nothing there, his own body was reacting violently. He felt incredibly panicked all of a sudden. Not at the thought of Molly being a mother. She would be a wonderful mother. He was sure of that. What he wasn’t sure of was how he would be. He didn’t know how to act or behave. All his guards were shattered, and he felt terribly scared. Sherlock didn’t want to lose Molly and he had always done everything to keep her far enough away. To keep her safe. Now everything was laid bare and he had been unmasked. Eurus had made sure of that. Now Molly wasn’t safe. There was so much more at stake now. How could he have been so stupid. Sherlock thought he may get sick.  
He slowly untangled himself from Molly, doing his best not to wake her. Softly padding through the house, Sherlock found his way towards the kitchen. Determined not to smoke now, given that he was sure Molly would now more than ever disapprove, he felt he could settle for water. Sherlock wasn’t sure he was surprised to find Mycroft poking at a slice of cake. Just like old times, he supposed, late-night kitchen conversations with his older brother. It was so reminiscent of the holiday seasons when Mycroft was home from University. It often led, when Sherlock was older, to smoking on the stone wall outback.  
“Fighting urges, Mycroft?”  
“More than you know, brother mine.”  
Mycroft continued to poke at the cake He then pushed it towards his younger brother, who calmly took a bite. It was quite good. Mycroft always had excellent tastes, though Sherlock never felt it necessary to inform him of that.  
“Apparently, Eurus sent a lovely letter to our parents. Explaining her confinement at my hands. They found it on the kitchen table this evening upon their return from holiday.”  
“Ah”  
“Yes, they are quite cross.”  
“Indeed”  
Mycroft was now frustrated at Sherlock’s lack of interest in his words. He was also, in general, in a most terrible mood to begin with, Sherlock had deduced. Thus, the self-loathing and slice of cake.  
“Are you going to say something of worth?”  
“Mycroft. What you did was wrong. I understand that Uncle Rudy left you with little choice, but you must also understand that their anger is entirely reasonable.”  
“Perhaps.”  
His brother sunk into himself a little further, looking rather guiltily at the cake. Sherlock pushed it back toward him. Mycroft lifted the fork to his lips and closed his eyes, letting the taste of chocolate and raspberry filled his mouth. He made a soft groan.  
“When are they coming.”  
“Tomorrow,” he opened his eyes and fixed them on Sherlock, “Well I suppose it’s actually today now. You’ll be there, won’t you?”  
Sherlock nodded and crossed the room towards the icebox to fetch his water. He poured himself a glass and took a deep gulp. So many things to worry about. Sherlock didn’t feel much better after the water.  
“What is it?”  
“Can I stay here, for a bit?”  
“Yes… but it’s not really for me to decide. That is up to Miss Hooper.”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“Has she forgiven you?”  
“Yes. I think. I don’t think I deserve it though,” he paused and turned to face his brother, “Mycroft I’m worried about her safety. Eurus figured me out and for so long I thought I had kept her far enough at a distance to keep her safe. And now… well now any dolt could surmise her importance and…” he turned back to face the icebox, “it’s only going to become more obvious.” he muttered more to himself than to Mycroft.  
He couldn’t even picture Molly like that. Sherlock had a hard time imagining a swollen Molly, heavy with his child. She was so small and delicate. Oh god, could her body even bare a child? He felt so sick.  
“Sherlock… we will keep her safe. This house is a fortress. It’s only been made more impossible to breach,” Sherlock turned to look at his brother, “That’s why I have kept her here. I know… well, I suppose now it is confirmed for me how very important she is. How much she matters.”  
“Thank you, Mycroft.”  
His younger brother’s words startled him. Sherlock so rarely said thank you. Mycroft surmised that perhaps his brother was more shattered by the events and consequences of Sherrinford than he had predicted. It only made him feel more guilty and worthless. That much was evident from Mycroft’s posture. Sherlock knew his brother well enough to guess with a great degree of accuracy what was going through his brother’s mind. He hoped he was less transparent.  
The slow rising of the sunlit the kitchen in a pastel glow. Sherlock nodded to Mycroft and placed a hand on his shoulder as he passed by.  
“You have done terrible things, brother,” Mycroft slumped, “but no one is beyond forgiveness.” Mycroft felt something wet on his cheek.  
\--  
Molly woke to a chilly room. Sherlock wasn’t anywhere to be found. She did her best not to feel hurt as she couldn’t deny that she wasn’t surprised. She sat up, the late morning sun filling the room with light. She gently laid a hand on her stomach, almost absentmindedly. It was a strange feeling, the feeling that she was carrying a life within her. She decided regardless of what Sherlock did or wanted, that she would not let it interfere with the happiness of her child. She would make sure that they made it work, one way or another.  
She realized suddenly that there was a glass of water perched on her nightstand, and she suddenly felt rather parched. She reached for the glass and a bit of paper fell to the floor. She swung her legs out from the bed and reached for the folded paper. It was nearly five pages she noticed, fold into three perfect sections.

Dear Molly,  
Don’t be alarmed. I had to go with Mycroft into town to meet with our parents and we’ll be back later in the day.

Molly breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that he hadn’t abandoned her already. She felt the weight leave her chest. She continued to read on.  
She had run out of tissues by the time she finished reading the five pages, front and back, of the long letter and explanation that Sherlock had left for her. It broke her heart to think that all this time, he had restrained himself to protect her. She had thought for so long that at best they simply had a working relationship, yet this letter had proved her utterly wrong. To think… all the time they had wasted. All those pointless years of words unspoken.  
It seemed suddenly all too much. Molly needed to get out of bed and get some fresh air. She quickly showered, moving all nine positive pregnancy tests off the floor, and dressed in a fuzzy lilac turtleneck and her favorite new leggings: teal with orange polka dots. She made her way downstairs to find a miserable looking John and Greg slumped at the table in the kitchen.  
“You guys look awful.”  
“Shhhhhh,” they both hissed at her in unison.  
Molly smiled to herself and started making a cup of tea. She knew enough from Mary’s pregnancy what she could and couldn’t have but it was odd to consider herself in that way. She felt a pang of sadness at the thought of not having Mary with her to share in this bond that they never had the chance to discuss together.  
She placed two mugs in front of her two friends and reached into the cabinet to grab aspirin for them both. They thanked her, telling her she was perhaps the saintliest of women. This made her quite happy, thinking of this little patchwork family that they had made more concrete in the last month. It was nice to always have someone there, even if she had been too sad lately to take advantage of it. Surely, now she would be happy, she thought, conscious to not rested her hand on her still flat stomach. She wondered how these two men would react to the news, when she got around to telling them. She realized then that she should probably call a doctor soon and sent up appointments.  
“Where’s Mycroft?” Greg mumbled. She noticed a discernible grumpiness in his voice. Molly wondered if perhaps Greg had finally gotten the courage to admit, at the very least to himself, that he was pining after the elder Holmes brother.  
“They both went to meet with their parents,” Molly offered.  
“Christ… Well good luck to them. I’m sure Mrs. Holmes is going to give them a right good tongue thrashing,” John muttered into his mug.  
“Ya I imagine she will.”  
“Great…” muttered Greg. Yes, something had happened. Molly was sure of it now.  
“John, where’s Rosie?” Molly asked, changing the subject to save Greg from his own potential outburst.  
“She’s with Mrs. Hudson. I actually have to go pick her up soon,” glancing at his watch.  
“You good to drive?” Greg asked, looking quite stern in his pajamas.  
John knocked back the aspirin and nodded.  
“Do you think he’ll stay?” Molly asked timidly from her spot at the giant table that served as both a kitchen workspace and their communal eating spot, as no one but Mycroft enjoyed the formal dining room.  
“Well yea ‘course. I think we’ve punished him long enough,” John said, sipping his tea and then he choked and sputtered, “Unless of course you don’t think he should stay, and we’ll send him away.”  
“No! No. I’m fine actually. Great actually,” she said, smiling into her tea.  
The two men exchanged glances. Molly had said that enough times in the past several weeks to make them both warily but silently, right there in the kitchen, they decided that this time she might actually be telling the truth.  
“Good.” John said, “Well I’m off to fetch Rosie. I’ll be back later. Do you guys need anything in town.”  
“Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to come to the store with me, Greg, and get something for dinner. I think it’s time we actually cooked our own food, and Mycroft doesn’t keep any goodies in the house.”  
“Sure.” Greg muttered into his tea. Molly decided he needed a friend today and she was desperately craving some sweets. Mycroft had such a large collection of kitchen tools and appliances and she thought they perhaps needed some love too. So, she decided to do a bit of shopping in town.  
“So, did you finally tell Mycroft that you fancy him?”  
“What?!” Greg sputtered, nearly crashing the shopping cart into an orange display.  
“Well it's rather obvious, Greg. I just didn’t know you fancied men.”  
“Hang on, how do you know I like… Mr. Homes?”  
“So, you admit it,” she said, smiling at him and selecting some flowers for the kitchen table. She had picked up a few tactics from Sherlock over the years and was quite smug about her ability to read all of them, sometimes better than either of the Holmes brothers.  
“Fine… Yes, I suppose I fancy him but what does that matter,” he replied grumpily, following her through the aisles.  
“Greg you liking a man doesn’t matter…”  
“Not all the time!” he interrupted, “I messed around a bit in Uni but… I haven’t really thought about it. My ex never wanted me to talk about it. Being improper and all.”  
“Greg… I don’t care what you like… ya know… in bed,” she blushed at this, becoming quite invested in her choices of frozen chips, “I just think you deserve to be happy.”  
“I don’t think I’m going to end up happy if there is a heartless Holmes involved.”  
Molly picked up a rather large bag of thick-cut chips and dropped them into the cart. She then studied Greg. He looked quite miserable and the store lights made him look awfully pale. His scruff was coming in beyond his normal 5 o’clock shadow.  
“If it’s worth anything, I think they just pretend to be cold because they think they are trying to protect us. Really though, they are protecting themselves,” she said quietly, “Greg you owe it to yourself to be forward with him.”  
“I was forward!” he snapped at her.  
“Greg... “  
“Can’t get much more forward then snogging. He didn’t want any of it though and we were both drunk…” he looked awfully sad, staring at the bag of chips, “He’s probably disgusted with me. Not even sure if he’s interested in men.”  
Molly flat out laughed at this, “Greg of course he’s attracted to you. He stares at you all the time when you’re not looking. You probably just took him off guard.”  
“Really?”  
“Yes, you git!” she replied, laughing at his incredulous expression, “Now, do you mind picking out the fish for me. I’m afraid I can’t stand the smell right now,” she said, continuing to collect the things she needed to make dinner. And the special treat she had in mind for dessert.  
\--  
The meeting with his parents had not gone well for either of them. Sherlock felt a tremendous amount of weight collecting on his shoulders and Mycroft had been in no state to talk. He had been completely silent on the ride to 221B and remained in the car while Sherlock collected some of his things. He grabbed only a few suits and shirts but his entire collection of pajamas. He noticed the distinct smell of cigarettes when he entered the car. He hoped the smell wouldn’t cling to him, opening the window to let the fresh air in. The whole ride back to the estate was still and quiet. Mycroft made a B-line to the garden as soon as the car stopped. Off for another cigarette, he was sure. He almost considered joining him until he heard Molly’s laughter drifting from the kitchen.  
Yes, she was indeed far more addicting than nicotine to him. He would much rather have her. So, he made his way back to the kitchen to find a rather absurd scene playing out. Rosie was sitting a pile of flour in the middle of the table and Molly, Lestrade and John were covered in a light dusting of flour. John had white little handprints on his face and shirt and Molly had some on her nose. Lestrade had managed to cover his head with a plate to shield his hair from appearing more white than grey.  
“Are you baking?” he asked, his eyebrows scrunching up.  
“Just finished actually,” Molly said cheerily, gesturing to the freshly baked chocolate chip cookies cooling by the oven. “Would you help us finish breading the fish?”  
“Well you’re doing it all wrong, Molly,” he said, scooping up his godchild, who immediately got flour all over his coat, face and hair. He then proceeded to rearrange the bowls into the correct order for breading.  
“So, where’s your brother?” Greg asked.  
“Outside pouting,” Molly started to make a move towards the door. His Molly was far too caring. He reached for her hand, pulling her back to his side, “having a smoke. Cigarettes wouldn’t be good for you,” he said with a soft smile.  
“Why’s that?” John asked, looking confused.  
Idiot. Why did he say that? Molly used to smoke when he first met her so many years ago and occasionally shared one with Sherlock when she was having a particularly bad day, which John knew.  
“Just trying to really quit,” Molly said with a cheery laugh, “For Rosie.”  
“Oh. Well, that’s very nice of you Molly.”  
She nodded and ducked her head, scooping up their godchild. She was blushing. Sherlock fought off the urge to hug her and plant a kiss on her lips. A proper hello after too many hours spent away. It had only been a few hours but that now seemed like far too long. Perhaps he was being overprotective.  
\--  
Molly knew Mycroft would put out the cigarette once he saw Rosie in her arms. She was in fact correct and watched him squash it out on the stonewall the rimmed the patio space.  
“Would you come and have dinner with us.”  
“What is it tonight? Chinese or Indian?” he said grumpily, never letting his eyes leave the tree line off in the far distant edge of the garden.  
“Fish and chips. Homemade. Well mostly.”  
“Oh. I’ll be fine. Thank you.”  
“No, you’re coming to eat with us Mycroft. You’ve had a bad day and you deserve to treat yourself a bit. Besides,” she settled down on the wall next to him, “Greg would be awfully put out if you didn’t join us.”  
Mycroft flinched. She placed her hand on his shoulder. He was glaring at the horizon. Unlike Sherlock, who’s eyes never seemed fixed on anything in particular when he was thinking, Mycroft's eyes always seemed to be fixed on the horizon. This, she thought was typical of someone who had an anxious tendency. Mycroft always seemed to be thinking of the future.  
“How did you forgive him after everything, after all his obvious flaws and failures. Why did you? After all the cruel remarks and attempts to push you away. Why would you forgive him?” he growled angrily. She realized after a moment that Mycroft wasn’t angry with her for forgiving Sherlock but rather angry that Sherlock had been forgiven. Jealous was perhaps a better word.  
“He talked to me. He told me everything. He told me how he felt.”  
“That’s too easy.”  
“It is certainly not easy Mycroft,” she said, standing. She was starting to get annoyed with the self-pity and his dismissal of Sherlock’s hardship. “But it is much harder to sit with your unhappiness and watch the people around you suffer.”  
She grabbed his elbow and marched him inside, only letting go just before they reached the kitchen.  
“I’m sorry, Molly. You really are too good for us.”  
“Mycroft,” she said gently patting his arm, “there is always room for improvement.”  
\--  
John was feeling good for the first time in a long while. They were all sitting around the kitchen table, not eating take out for the first time in… well he wasn’t quite sure how long. Rosie was smooshing chips into her mouth between her daddy and her Uncle Sherlock. Molly sat on his other side, laughing and making jokes that made Sherlock smirk. Greg and Mycroft had both taken second helpings and were casually picking at the remaining chips in the serving bowl. Also, he noticed, careful not to reach at the same time.  
God, it felt good to feel like he was home again. Rosie seemed genuinely happy lately and cried less than she had at their house. There was always someone around to play with her. It seemed like Molly was finally happy now too and he knew they all felt better having Sherlock back with them. Everything was quite pleasant until…  
“So, I’ll be going back to Sherrinford in two days,” Sherlock prompted whilst dipping his cookie into some milk.  
“What?!” exclaimed Greg  
“Bloody Hell…” John muttered, “Now why on earth would you do that.”  
“She’s been alone there for so long. The least I could do is give her some company.  
Mycroft retracted his hand from the serving dish, “As I’ve said before, Sherlock, she is catatonic.”  
“You should bring your violin and play for her,” Molly offered quietly.  
They all turned to stare at her. Rosie threw a chip at Sherlock.  
“I just think it would be nice. Ya know… sibling bonding and whatnot.”  
“Molly, she’s a murderer,” John said, glaring at her, “Who’s to say she won’t hurt us again?! Have you thought of that?”  
Sherlock stood abruptly. He stared down at John and John was suddenly worried that his face would melt off.  
“Don’t speak to Molly like that,” he said in an even, steely tone.  
“Molly I’m sorry,” John said, not wanting to look at Sherlock anymore, “It’s just I can’t.” his voice broke a little looking at his daughter.  
“She won’t be able to reach us here John,” Mycroft said softly.  
“Oh ya? Didn’t you say something like that before?” John snapped at Mycroft.  
He then scooped up Rosie and marched away from the kitchen, towards the room he and Rosie had been sharing. He plopped her down into her playpen and fell into his bed.  
Oh, Mary… he thought to himself. He knew he shouldn’t have snapped the way he did but if he was being honest with himself, he just wasn’t sure if he could handle any more death. There had been far too much in these last couple of years. He wanted his daughter to be safe and he wanted his best friend to stop running headlong into more and more dangerous situations. And he also had a sneaking suspicion that Molly was pregnant. So now he had her to worry about too and he wasn’t sure he trusted Sherlock to really be capable of taking care of her the way she ought to be.  
What mess his life was. He felt a headache coming on again and wasn’t quite sure he had really recovered entirely from the previous night of drinking. He really was getting too old for all this.  
\--  
Sherlock had followed Molly to her room. She looked rather tired and sad. He supposed that was his fault again, as he was the one that prompted the argument with John. He snapped at John occasionally, but he never recalled an occasion when he had felt like throttling John. But then again Molly tended to have that effect on him.  
She stopped at the foot of her bed; her arms wrapped around herself. He liked her jumper. It reminded him of springtime in Sussex. All the lavender Mummy grew in the planter boxes. He realized he’d have to bring her there one day. To meet his parents. Formally that is.  
He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her gingerly, still unsure how this all worked. How real intimacy worked. Not just pretend. All those silly little emotions made him doubt his every move. He was so unused to this self-doubt. He felt her lean into his embrace and rested her head against his chest. So tiny and delicate in his arms. So beautiful.  
“Molly, I’m sorry I ruined dinner.”  
“You didn’t ruin it. I just think there’s a lot we all still have to figure out. You should apologize to John.”  
“For what?”  
She turned on him, facing him, her warm brown eyes meeting his, “You scared him, Sherlock. He’s lost his wife and he has a baby to protect.”  
“Yes, indeed he does.” he glided past her and fell into the bed, closing his eyes. God, he was so tired. And stressed. There were so many variables and so many things for him to muck up. Now there was too much on the line. Oh god, he had made such a mistake that day in his blown-up flat. He had put Molly in more danger than Eurus ever had. He should have never taken her like that.  
Sherlock had on a few occasions considered what it had been like to have Molly. To show her how important she was to him in the way that people traditionally did. Though he had engaged in sexual acts with people in the past, he had never had intercourse. It never seemed necessary. But now, he was unsure.  
“Sherlock?”  
He opened his eyes to find Molly standing where he had left her. Oh god, she was crying again. The tears slipped softly down her face. He watched them for a moment, unsure of what to do. He had to make her stop crying. He knew she was going to be more prone to crying given her condition… Oh god her condition. The baby. He felt like he was spiraling.  
“Sherlock, you’re shaking.”  
“Molly…”  
“Sherlock, you’re scaring me,” she said softly.  
“Molly, come here please,” he reached his shaking hand towards her. She accepted it and let him pull her towards him. He pulled her into his arms and let his shaking hand stroke her silky brown hair.  
“I’m sorry, Molly. I don’t want you to be afraid of me”  
“Sherlock, I’ve not afraid of you. I’m afraid of what you’re thinking and what you might do. I’m afraid that you’ll run or push me away again.”  
“Molly don’t be silly. That’s not an option anymore.”  
“Because I’m pregnant?!” she sounded so hurt.  
“No, not because you’re pregnant. Although I’m sure it will make me a monster for not considering that a good reason to stay,” he continued to stroke her hair, his hands still shaking violently, “No, Molly, I can’t run or hide from the truth anymore. You know everything now and you would figure out eventually that it was all fake. If I’m really being honest, I don’t know if I really have the strength to stay away anymore. I’m so sorry that I’m such a weak man…”  
“Sherlock…”  
“No, Molly. I’m not Mycroft. You can’t convince me that I’m able to change. If I had been stronger...If I had been like Mary, then I would have left ages ago. I wouldn’t have let myself see you again just to keep you safe. And now I’ve put you in danger because I’m too weak… I shouldn’t have kissed you...shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have… and now there’s a baby. Oh god Molly, now there’s a baby…”  
His whole body was shaking now. Shaking with sobs. He was clinging to her now, pulling her close to his chest, their legs twined together on the bed. Sherlock buried his face into her hair, hoping the smell of vanilla and lavender would be enough to make him forget about how pathetic and unworthy he was. How badly he had let them all down. He had let everyone down. John, Mary, Mycroft, Victor, and even Eurus, his murderous sister who had only wanted his company. For the first time, he actually wished Molly hadn’t helped him fake his death but that he had actually thrown himself off the roof of Bart’s. Oh god.  
“Sherlock… Please. I love you. Please stop. You’re not weak. You’ve been so strong for so long for all of us. It’s time to stop blaming yourself for everything. Please. You owe me, Sherlock. You owe me that. If I forgave you, then you have to forgive yourself too. Please…” she pleaded into his chest, “Please. I love you. I need you, Sherlock. We need you.”  
\--  
Greg got up from the table and started to clean up. He rolled up his sleeves and began to scrub the dishes they had left in the sink. He couldn’t believe Sherlock was going to go back there. Then again, that was his M.O. to put himself in danger to save others. And god, he had a really bit John’s head off there for chastising Molly. It was clear now that they were in some way...Dating? If that was the right word for it. Probably not, given it was Sherlock Holmes he was talking about.  
“Greg…”  
He froze, his hands all soapy and wet. He hadn’t noticed Mycroft moving towards the sink. Lestrade realized he must have been lost in thought.  
“I… uh… owe you an explanation, I would imagine. For last night.”  
Greg wasn’t sure he was really hearing right. Feeling more awkward than he cared to admit, he started to scrub the plate in his hand again. Perhaps Mycroft would leave if he just ignored him long enough. He had seen Sherlock get away with it before.  
“Darling…” he felt Mycroft's hand on the small of his back and knew that Mycroft was probably trying his best to give a coy smile, “ I am afraid I was quite unprepared for your advance last night… and I found myself unsure of how to… act accordingly.”  
“Oh?” Shit… Greg had done his best to stay quiet, but the word had slipped from his lips. At least he had managed to sound uninterested in the conversation. He wondered if perhaps Sherlock would be impressed.  
“Yes… Detective Lestrade, there have been very few… no there hasn’t been a single person that I have allowed to do what you did last night. It made me feel… well, it startled me. I’m not used to… human contact.” he heard Mycroft take a deep breath, “I’m sorry, Greg.”  
He was no longer trying to remain silent now. He just simply didn’t know what to say. As the silence grew, he noticed Mycroft shifted his position, so he stood beside Greg. He started to help Greg with dishes. They cleaned the rest of the dishes together in silence.  
\--  
It took an hour for Sherlock’s body to stop shaking. Molly stayed curled up in his arms, listening to his pulse return to a normal rate, his breathing to slow and become more even and his hands to stop shaking.  
“Molly…”  
“Yes, Sherlock.”  
“I love you.”  
“I know,” she said, lifting her eyes to his face. His eyes were shut tight and rimmed with red. She reached up to trace her lower lip with his fingertip, just as he had done when they sat in the ashy rubble of his flat. His eyes slowly opened and fixed on her own. It broke her heart to see him look so shattered. She lifted her face, shifting so that their noses were nearly touching.  
“Molly,” he breathed her name, “I love you.”  
“Yes, you said that already,” she replied with a weak smile.  
“I haven’t said it enough.”  
Her chest felt tight. She needed to kiss him. In her life, she had never kissed him first. He kissed her first twice now. It occurred to her suddenly how unfair it was that she never got the chance to kiss him. To take him by surprise. So, she did. She pressed her lips to his. They were so very soft. She kissed him gently, knowing that perhaps it wasn’t the time to attempt the sort of ferocious kissing that he seemed to like.  
Sherlock kissed her back, slowly and tentatively. His finger wound its way through her hair, and she felt inclined to return the gesture. He pulled back gently and she opened her eyes to find him staring into her soul.  
“Molly… I know I briefly mentioned it in my letter but…”  
“I know, Sherlock,” she said softly, “We can take things slow if that’s easier.’  
“I’m not sure easier is the right word… and no I don’t want to take it slow. Unless of course, you do, and which case I will find another room to sleep in.”  
“No. Stay.”  
“Ok”  
Sherlock twisted their entwined bodies so that Molly was beneath him. She noticed that he had propped himself so as to not put any weight on her. She smiled at this and hooked her legs around his waist, and in one swift movement, she was on top of him. His eyes were wide, his pupils so dilated. His pulse was quickened and she could feel the blood rush elsewhere. It surprised her how quickly he had been aroused.  
\--  
His pants were suddenly too tight. Oh god, she was too much sometimes. Too beautiful. Her slender legs straddled him, her round bottom, slight hips, and delicate waist. He ran his hands up and down the length of her body. Her breasts were bigger now. Heavier even. That was the only difference he noticed though.  
Sherlock sat up a bit, kissing her collarbone and then her slender neck. Her pointed chin. Her soft lips curled into the most beautiful smile. Molly was so incredibly perfect.  
“Molly” he whispered on her lips. He loved the way her name felt on his tongue.  
She kissed him more passionately now, and he felt her tongue flick across his lips. God, he was going to devour her. Her mouth tasted like chocolate. He hoped he didn’t taste like fish and chips.  
She began to slowly unbutton his shirt, driving him mad. He slipped his hands under her jumper, needing to feel her soft porcelain skin. The curve of her body. He slowly found the clasps and unhooked her bra, pulling it away from her body. She pushed the fabric of his shirt away from his body, placing kisses down his neck and shoulders. Down his chest. She unbuckled his trousers as she went lower and he took her motion as an opportunity to relieve her of that pesky jumper.  
Oh god… she had her lips on him… his pulse quickened to an alarming rate. Why does it feel so good to have her mouth on him that way? He slowly tugged the hair elastic from her hair and let himself really lose his fingers… and perhaps his sanity in her lovely chestnut hair.  
He couldn’t handle it any longer… he pushed her backwards gently so that she lay with her head at the foot of her bed, all too eager to repay the gesture. His hands gently removed the polka dot leggings, tracing their way back up her bare legs after. Dancers legs. He always knew she used to dance and had seen her balancing on her tiptoes all too often in the lab. She was so graceful. So lovely. And she was his.  
\--  
Molly gasped. She was sure she had never felt such pleasure in her life. Her body felt as if it were on fire and Sherlock with stoking her flame with his mouth and hands. She felt that she might burn up and didn’t mind that she would be reduced to ash. She moaned his name and he collided into her, burying himself in her, his eyes burning into hers. She kept breaking, over and over again. He was none to quiet either. Every time he claimed her, she thought she might shatter into a million pieces.  
“My Molly...’  
“Oh Sherlock...”  
He shuddered at his own name as it spilled from her lips, “Molly!” he groaned, reaching his limit. She, too, had reached her peak and they both lay shaking in each other’s arms, clinging to one another. It was minutes before either of them regained any sort of normal breathing.  
“Did you remember the condom?”  
“What?!” he said turning in confusing to find she was giggling at her own joke. He smirked. He had such a lovely smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes. God, she loved him.  
\--  
“Are they…”  
“It would seem so…” Mycroft said softly. Molly’s room was directly under his and he had done so in an attempt to be immediately available should any danger reveal itself. Now he quite regretted that choice. Perhaps he might tentatively offer the larger room on the west side of the estate.  
“Well, I suppose that’s a good sign.” Greg offered, tucking his hands behind his head and crossing his ankles on the coffee table. Mycroft reached for the remote next to him and turned up the volume, attempting to drown out the sounds of his brother's impending climax.  
“Why’s that?”  
“Well I suppose it means that they’re together now.”  
“Quite.”  
Greg had seated himself in the plush chair by the fire, facing the window while Mycroft sat facing the tele, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. Mycroft wanted a cigarette. He noticed the outline of the cigarette box in Greg’s front pants pocket awhile ago but tried to restrain himself as he felt he had already indulged himself too much today. He had spent many nights this past month smoking on the balcony. Greg had joined him many times and tonight was not unlike many other nights since the events at Sherrinford. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face his little sister again. She was almost more than he could handle but he never admitted this fact to anyone. Not that he could anyway. With whom would he even share that information.  
“So, are you going back there too?”  
Mycroft was surprised by Greg’s question, for a second unsure if the Detective was perhaps reading his mind.  
“Yes. Sherlock decided he would visit her on Sunday and then we would all make a little family trip there on Wednesday,” he grumbled at the tele.  
“Sounds like fun…” Greg joked, smiling at Mycroft. His smile slipped when he noticed the look on Mycroft’s face, “So are you no longer on kiss arse mode?”  
This comment stirred Mycroft more permanently from his own thoughts.  
“Please accept my apology, darling. It’s been a terribly long day and I’m afraid… well, I’m a terrible host it would seem.”  
“Na… I mean we’ve all stayed here regardless,” he offered Mycroft a soft smile.  
“Indeed.”  
Mycroft looked out the window at the sun that was slowly setting behind the tree line. They had stayed. It was odd having laughter and conversation in a house that so often sounded vacant of life. Always so silent He was used to the silence. These past six weeks had been the strangest, reminding him of when they were children. Sherlock had always been such a loud and rowdy child. He supposed that he had missed all the noise.  
“So… the wedding band…”  
“Ah… yes well, it looks better in public to be married. Less likely to invite unwanted behavior. Presents as being more trustworthy or patriarchal.”  
“Brilliant… I ditched mine a long time ago. Hated it really. The ex was a real… well we’re divorced so I guess that tells it all.”  
“No that tells very little actually. There are lots of reasons for divorce.”  
“I cheated.”  
Mycroft was taken by surprise. Greg had always struck him as an uncommonly faithful man. He had never suspected that Greg had been the guilty party. He always assumed it had been the wife.  
“With a man I met at the pub… I was drunk and… well if I’m being honest, I missed having someone pursue me. Alice was bored with me only a couple of months into our marriage and well… she just stopped trying. I guess I did too.” It was Greg's turn to look off at the horizon. They had had so many conversations about so many different things but never anything so personal. Nothing like this.  
“Why was she bored?”  
“I was never around. It was fairly early in my career so I worked a lot.”  
“I see… I suppose our careers are to blame then for our lack of romantic connection.”  
“I’m sure there’s more to it than that,” Greg mused offering another smile, which was this time returned by Mycroft.  
\--  
Molly bolted for the toilet. She hugged the rim as she puked up her guts. Suddenly she felt her hair being pulled from her face and Sherlock’s hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. When she had finished getting sick, she rested her head against the cool toilet seat. She hardly noticed Sherlock leave, returning with her fuzzy yellow bathrobe. He draped it over her naked body. They had fallen asleep naked and the room was now cold, as they both preferred the window open while they slept. Molly slipped her arms into the sleeves and tied the rope around her waist. Sherlock helped her off the floor. She wrapped her arm around his middle.  
“We should see a doctor soon. Perhaps they can prescribe you something to help with the sickness,” Sherlock offered gently.  
“Yes, that sounds like a good idea. It’s the weekend though so I’ll have to call Monday.”  
“Is it possible to schedule an appointment on a day other than Wednesday?”  
“I’m sure… why?”  
She pulled herself away from Sherlock to fetch his bottoms and a robe. Unfortunately, she needed water… and perhaps some more cookies. Molly knew Sherlock would probably forget them and didn’t wish to meet anyone along the way with a naked Sherlock.  
“Well tomorrow I’ll be flying to Sherrinford and Wednesday I’ll be returning with Mycroft and our parents.”  
She handed the robe and pants to him and brushed her teeth while he dressed.  
“You don’t have to go to the appointment you. I know it's not really your thing and I know how much you hate hospitals.”  
“Nonsense, Molly! Of course, I’m going… Why am I putting on clothes?”  
“Um… I wanted some water. Care to join?”  
They strode down the hall together. Sherlock reached for her hand and their fingers intertwined. Molly, outside the throwing up part, felt really good. It was good to have him here with her. To have him hold her and be so attentive. When they reached the kitchen, they found they weren’t the only ones wanting a snack. John was sitting at the table with several cookies and a glass of milk.  
“John!”  
“Sherlock… Molly. I’ll give you some space if you’d like.”  
“No, John, stay!” Molly said reaching towards the cabinet with the glasses. She filled the two glasses with water. She reached for the jar that someone had filled with the cookies they had made before. Ugh, they were so good.  
“John I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking before. I…”  
“Sherlock forget about it, please. I don’t want to fight with you. Just promise me… promise you won’t do anything unnecessarily dangerous.”  
“I promise, John.”  
Molly placed a cup in Sherlock’s hands and continued to nibble on her cookie. She made them large and chewy, just like her gran had when she was little. Sherlock gave her a quizzical look and she shrugged, giving him a small, sheepish smile. He returned the smile.  
“So… you two seem to be getting along just fine.”  
“Amazing isn’t it,” Molly supplied, giving Sherlock a playful nudge with her elbow.  
“Ya… I mean it’s awfully important given your kid will probably want to see their parents getting along,” John said, his eyebrows raising and he sipped his glass of milk.  
Molly’s mouth opened and shut.  
“Impressive John,” Sherlock offered, smiling at his friend, “When did you figure it out?”  
“Well… I saw the pregnancy tests when I helped Molly put you to bed after you fainted.”  
“Ah…”  
\--  
“Congrats… Maybe we can get a two for one deal with Mrs. Hudson later down the road,” John grinned at his friend. He stood and gave Molly a kiss on the cheek.  
“Mary would be so happy…”  
Molly threw her arms around him. He hugged her back, because it felt good to hug Molly. She had been such a kind friend to them both and John was truly happy to see his best friend have the woman he had secretly loved for years. Mary had told him so many times that it was Molly that Sherlock loved. She had been so brilliant. He missed her so very much.  
\--  
Sherlock felt better. Molly’s arm was linked in his. She had insisted they take a quick walk in the garden before they went back to bed. He wouldn’t never admit it to anyone, outside of maybe Molly, that he had really needed that cry earlier and having John know about their secret made everything seem… a bit more right in the world he supposed. He noticed as they walked under Mycroft’s balcony window that Greg and his brother were sharing a smoke… odd.  
Molly had apparently noticed as well because she explained to him that it appeared Mycroft and Greg had a budding romance. She also admitted that she had done a fair bit of leg work to loosen up his brother and encourage Lestrade.  
It was exceptionally strange to think that his brother had actually let someone in and the possibility of that he could actually be pursuing a relationship was positively mind-boggling. But then the same could be said about him holding Molly Hooper falling asleep in his arms, exhausted from the simple fact that she was carrying his child. What a world it was.


	2. The Files in 221B

Molly was in fact quite furious with Sherlock at the moment. He had busted into her doctor’s appointment whilst her legs were still in the stir-ups to announce that he needed to speak to her immediately. He then grabbed the doctor by her elbow and guided her out into the hallway.  
“Sherlock, we agreed after Monday that you wouldn’t be coming to another appointment until you had sorted yourself out!”  
“It’s not my fault that the last doctor was a complete toss-pot.”  
“Sherlock we’ve already gone through three doctors since Monday…”  
“So, we’ll find another.”  
“No, I quite like this one.”  
“Molly you deserve that absolute best possible care and safety of our child is…”  
“Enough!”  
Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. Oh, he was really pushing his luck now. After the last doctor left the room crying, they, or rather she had made the decision that Molly would go to the next appointment alone and he would be allowed in after she had decided that she had found the right doctor. She pulled the dressing gown down, shielding her privates from the chilly hospital air. This was all embarrassing enough as is.   
“I rather liked this doctor and we had agreed that you would visit Eurus today.”  
“Yes well… She’ll understand.”  
“Since when was your sister the understanding type?!” she laughed. She knew that Sherlock would be difficult, but she was entirely unsure how exactly she was supposed to have a child if there was no doctor in London good enough for Sherlock. Jesus.   
“Call the doctor back in and apologize. Now.”  
He huffed and flung the door back open. The doctor had been waiting just outside the door. She had long reddish hair and beautiful green eyes. They were kind eyes. Somehow this doctor reminded her of Mary. Perhaps that’s why she had decided that Dr. Hamish would be her doctor.   
“This must be the famous Sherlock Homes?”  
“Yes… Sorry.”  
“It’s alright,” she shrugged, “some first-time fathers go bonkers. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with an anxious daddy,” she said, smiling to the both of them in turn, “So… shall we have a look-see?”  
\--  
There were two. Two little dots on the sonogram. Two little heartbeats. Two… His nose was nearly touching the screen, Molly’s hand still in his, stretched out behind him. He felt her squeeze it and yanked him back. He had made her quite angry with all this doctor’s nonsense and found he was now angry with himself for causing a delay in this recent development.   
“Well, congratulations! Twins!” Dr. Hamish said. She sounded quite excited.   
“Twins,” Sherlock exhaled.  
Hamish and Molly chatted a bit but he didn’t register anything that was said. His head was fuzzy and he couldn’t form a thought beyond the simple word. What a paradigm. One word to describe two. Two little heartbeats. Two little humans. At some point, he noticed that Hamish had pressed a little copy of the sonogram into his hand. It proved beyond a doubt that his panic was entirely reasonable. He now had three of them to worry about. It was now going to be him, Molly and twins. Dear god…  
“Sherlock… Sherlock? It’s time to go. Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”  
“As you should be! Two more mouths to feed! Take care of yourself, Molly. I’ll see you at our next appointment and feel free to call if you have any concerns,” she gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder, “You too, Sherlock. Give me a ring if you have any questions.”  
He watched Molly's dress. She had come straight from Bart’s on her break. She was wearing evergreen trousers and a fuchsia cardigan will little white and blue flowers. As always, she was both literally and figuratively the brightest part of his day. He calculated that she would need new clothes in no less than two months. Or at least she would switch from her work trousers to a permanent state of leggings. Which he believed would be nice because he would have a better view of her slim legs.   
Sherlock shook his head, his curls bouncing. He wasn’t used to his brain constantly  
being bombarded with thoughts of Molly. And thoughts of what he wanted to do to Molly. He could spend hours and hours thinking about the little noises she made, the way her smile became lazy and her eyes bright.   
“C’mon Sherlock.”  
She was still mad he realized. Damn. He had completely forgotten about his earlier outburst. Or rather burst in. He followed Molly out into the hall and waited as she set up her next appointment with the man at the front desk. She didn’t bother to check if he was following as she exited the Women’s Health section of the hospital or when she hailed a cab on the street. He had to quicken his pace to catch the cab before she inevitably left him behind.  
“Molly…”  
“Sherlock, we discussed this. You said you would stop bursting in…”  
“I like her. You picked a good doctor, Molly.”  
She paused, “Yes I know,” she said after a moment, smiling to herself.   
“Twins, Molly, twins…” he said quietly.   
“Yes, I know,” she squeezed his hand.  
They stopped at Molly’s pharmacy and then to a fast-food restaurant near Bart’s. He hadn’t bothered to leave, choosing instead to sit in her little office at Bart’s hospital, bouncing a tennis ball off the wall. He liked Molly’s office. It was cozy. There were pictures of her and Mary, her and Rosie, Rosie and Mrs. Hudson, himself and John, Greg and John and even one of himself and Mycroft. There were flowers too. She always had flowers. He should get her some, he thought. She’d probably like that.   
Sherlock was then jolted from his thoughts by a phone call.  
“What is it, Mycroft.” his tone bored and a bit annoyed.  
“Where are you.”  
“Bart’s,”  
“With Molly?”  
Sherlock sat up straight. The ball hit the opposite wall where his hand was once way and then thudded onto the floor. Mycroft’s voice sounded too cool. Devoid of sarcasm or snobbery.  
“What is it, Mycroft!”  
“Eurus.”  
He suddenly heard a beaker breaking in the other room.   
Sherlock shot from the chair and bolted for the lab. He froze, seeing Molly standing in front of him, the broken beaker at her feet.   
“Molly, are you ok?!”  
“She’s fine, brother dear.” He thought he felt his heart stop. “When were you going to tell me that I was going to be an auntie?  
\--  
Eurus sat opposite Molly in the private jet. She was of course in chains and gagged, but Mycroft was uneasy having her so close to Molly and her chilling gaze. Her eyes remained fixed on Molly’s since the moment she had regained consciousness after being knocked out by the special forces’ agent. He had sorely wished that Molly had been left in London but Sherlock refuses to let her go, insisting that Molly was only safe with him. His brother’s hand never left hers. John and Lestrade had removed themselves from the estate and had gone to the bolt holes that had previously been discussed and Mycroft was sure to ask after Rosie this time.   
Mycroft thoughts were disrupted as the jet began its descent. It wasn’t the most pleasant as it was again pouring, and he noticed Molly’s face twinging green. He hoped she wasn’t going to be sick. As they landed, he noticed her take a clean napkin from her pocket and wet it using the water bottle Sherlock had placed in her hands an hour earlier. She then got up.  
“Molly!”  
“Miss Hooper!”  
He and Sherlock both shot to their feet in alarm and Molly proceed to walk towards their sister and kneel in front of her. They watched in horror as Molly used the napkin to wipe the dried blood from his sister’s temple. Molly was so gentle will a rather large and tender looking laceration from the butt of a gun. She then straightened herself and stepped off the jet. Both brothers looked at one another for a sheer second before Sherlock followed after Molly. Mycroft then turned and looked down on his younger sister.  
“I trust you understand that if anything should happen to Miss Hooper that you will die at the hands of one of your brothers… but more likely, both,” his tone low and threatening.  
Eurus didn’t even blink. He watched as the guards lifted her out of her seat and marched her into the rain, her gown became translucent. He followed suit after passing his umbrella to Molly. She and Sherlock a few steps behind him, Sherlock shielding her from the rain and cold best he could. Mycroft tried not to shiver, wishing he had been more prepared. But then again, he was never fully prepared when it came to Eurus.  
He, Sherlock and Molly seated themselves in the viewing room across from Eurus’s new cell. After spending time in her old cell, he found some things he felt should be adjusted. And after learning how she had so quickly escaped, he ordered more to be made. There were no windows in her cell and only a soft green glow from the lights above. The ceilings were high, and the walls were made of smooth concrete. They were miles underground and it was cold. Mycroft tried to ignore the cold sweat on his back, cursing himself for wearing his best suit that day. He watched as the guards deposited his sister on the ground and removed her gag. The restraints that strapped her limbs to her would remain. He didn’t know how long he would have them there as he was in no hurry to give her any advantages.  
Forever, perhaps, Mycroft thought as a terrifying smile spread across his sister’s face. Her eyes still bore into Molly’s. It was uncanny. The smile that would look so innocent on any other's face, but it looked especially threatening on Eurus’ and her stare was far to penetrating.  
“How is your head feeling, Eurus?” Molly’s voice was small and echoed off the walls of his sisters’ cell.  
“I’m not sure,” Eurus replied. Her voice carried more power than Molly’s had but was somehow childlike in its quality.  
“Enough games Eurus! Why did you threaten Molly?” Mycroft couldn’t hold back the anger in his voice. He gripped the arms of his chair so fiercely his knuckles turned white. He was sick of this.   
“That flight was awfully uncomfortable, though. Painfully tense. You managed to not get sick. You must remember to thank Doctor Hamish when you see her next.”  
“I will,” Molly said, her voice still soft. Mycroft could hear the slightest quiver of fear in her voice but given the circumstances, he would have expected any other person to collapse in fear or bow under the pressure of Eurus’ gaze. He had seen it happen enough times.  
“Molly, do you like three?”  
“Three?”  
“Yes, the number three. It’s a special number, you see. Everything good happens in threes or at least that what all the stories say. The three little pigs, three wishes, three nights, three wise men. Everyone likes three,” her gaze suddenly shifted to Sherlock whose hand had remained on Molly’s, “Isn’t that right, little brother?”  
“Yes, it is,” Sherlock’s voice was steady, calm even.  
“What do you want, Eurus,” Sherlock asked.  
“To be free, brother mine,” her eyes glided back to Molly’s.  
“That is impossible.” Mycroft fumed.  
“Silly, Mycroft… He was always the clever one, Molly, but he was never as clever as me. I wonder which of yours will be the smartest… My money is on the girl… but she’ll be smarter for a different reason. The boy will be slow like Mycroft and Sherlock. It’s a pity really that they can’t use as much of their brain and us three.”  
“How do you know it’ll be a boy and a girl. We only just found out that it was twins today?” Molly’s voice was growing in strength, her curiosity and surprise overriding a very necessary fear.  
“Balance of probability. I’m certain about that. What I’m not so certain of is whether or not you’ll survive. That’s more uncertain. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see it through. How fun that will be.”  
“What do you mean???” Molly had risen from her chair and now stood close to the wall of glass that separated them from Eurus. Mycroft was almost certain he could hear his brother's heart pounding.  
“Oh, Molly… don’t you know? The world is run by us. It is entirely up to you and Dr. Hamish. It’s honestly shameful how little they understand about that. Women cannot be so easily predicted and there is almost nothing in the world as powerful as the love of a mother. A woman like you would do anything for her own flesh and blood. It's a secret strength and power they have. You’ll have to visit me often and tell me what it's like. I have taken so many lives but will never have the opportunity to make one. Our uncle saw to that. Men tend to muck things up like that, making silly choices to make themselves feel superior. Don’t they Mycroft?” Eurus finally turned to him, her eyes tearing into his nerves, “It must feel so shameful to be wrong so often. You’ve made so many mistakes as of late,” Mycroft fumed. He felt his blood pressure rise to an unhealthy level, “Oh don’t fret, brother dear. As I have said, three is an important number Mycroft and you have far too many security breaches.”  
“Your escapes have made that quite evident, but you will not be escaping this facility for the third time.” he seethed.  
“Yes, you’re right. I won’t be escaping again. You’re going to let me out.”  
“Eurus, that is quite impossible.”  
“Why would he let you out?” Sherlock said quietly.  
“Because I will have earned it. I have solved you a case already. That’s what you call those funny games you play, isn’t it? That’s why Mycroft lets you live outside. Because you play games with him.”  
“What case, Eurus?”  
“The case of Irene Adler.”  
“Irene Adler is dead,” Mycroft nearly shouted.  
“No, she’s not,” Molly said quietly, dropping herself back into the chair between the two brothers. Sherlock turned to look at her, his face expressionless, while Mycroft continued to hold his sister’s stare.  
“With all due respect Molly, I have it on good authority that she was beheaded.”  
“Molly’s right, isn’t she, Sherlock? John was a naughty friend wasn’t he, not keeping your secret.”  
“Yes, she’s right. I saved her life years ago. Helped her fake her death.”  
“Yes, you’re all so dramatic with your faked deaths. So unoriginal at this point really. I’m rather bored of them. You two should go have a chat with her. You can tell me what you’ve discovered in two days when you two come back with Mummy and Daddy. If it’s suitable, then I won’t tell them about Molly’s condition. Make sure you give Mrs. Adler my regards,” She smiled then at Sherlock, “Oh and tell her I’ve missed our sessions.” Eurus closed her eyes. She looked as if she was meditating   
\--  
John bounced Rosie on his lap again. He had to admit he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Rosie was not having that problem, unfortunately. She was wailing again. She had more teeth coming in but the ones already there were incredibly sharp. His phone suddenly rang, which sent Rosie into an abrupt silence once she heard who it was that was speaking on the other end. She had an uncanny knack of listening silently while her godfather spoke.   
“John, I need you at Baker Street.”  
“ARE YOU BLOODY GOING TO TELL ME WHAT’S GOING ON!” John shouted into the receiving end of his mobile.   
“Yes, John once you get here.”  
“What am I to do with Rosie, then?” he heard the line disconnect and swore. Then he apologized to Rosie for swearing. The doorbell rang down the hall. He groaned and he and Rosie went to the door to find Mrs. Hudson smiling.   
“John, haven’t you heard? The game is afoot?!” she said offering her trademark smile and took Rosie in her arms.  
So John went back into the bolthole, fetched their things and waved goodbye as Rosie and Mrs. Hudson took the first cab. He settled into the next.  
“Where to?” the cabbie asked.  
“221B Baker Street.”  
John found Sherlock sitting in the dimly lit rubble of the flat, the blue tarps covering the window casting an eerie blue glow from the street lights. They were supposed to meet here tomorrow to start sorting out what they wanted to keep before the cleaners came. He realized Euros must have reduced the explosives, otherwise, the whole building would have been wrecked.  
“So what is it. What’s your bloody sister done now?”  
“Apparently she wants us to find Irene Adler.”  
“What for?”  
“She insists it will help me sure up my security, it seems,” Mycroft emerged from the kitchen, absently stirring a cup of tea, his eyes not leaving his cup.  
Mycroft explained what happened during their latest trip to Sherrinford. John tried not to get sick thinking of Molly being so close to that psychopath. He wasn’t sure if he was surprised at what Euros had apparently claimed. He wasn’t sure he would ever be surprised by the sheer absurdity that their lives had become. John didn’t feel like admitting to himself that he was… intrigued by the prospect of finding The Woman who he had thought dead up until a month or so ago. He certainly could keep his eyes open now.  
“Wait… what did Molly say about this.”  
“She didn’t,” Sherlock said softly, “She asked to be dropped off at her flat.”  
“Is she even safe there?!”  
“Yes. If any of us should die or be harmed in any way, Eurus will be terminated. She won’t put herself in that kind of danger,” Mycroft said casually.  
“Why would that matter? Moriarty went and shot himself. Why wouldn’t she do the same.”   
“Because she’s never truly lived. You can’t end something you never begun,” Sherlock replied a bit coldly. He was staring at John’s empty chair, his fingertips connected under his chin. A position John had often seen him take.  
“Who’s all of us?”  
“The important players. You, Sherlock, Molly, Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, and Detective Lestrade.”  
“Oh. So, what now?”  
“We find The Woman,” Sherlock said, reaching for his phone.  
\--  
Greg sat at his desk, rubbing his palms into his eyes. After getting the okay from Mycroft that the coast was clear, he left the bolt hole and went to the office. He had a stack of cases on his desk and he guessed Sherlock would probably be too busy with the fallout from today for Greg to bother stopping by. He wasn’t sure his brain was even functioning anymore. He had gotten very little sleep last night, staying up talking too late into the night with Mycroft about… well about everything. He didn’t regret losing so much sleep until now, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit thinking of how little Mycroft slept at all. He wasn’t sure he could keep up. He was getting too old for this.  
“You ok?” Donovan asked, popping her head in.  
“Mhhhh.”   
“That’s convincing. I brought you a coffee,” she plopped down in the chair opposite his desk, “I spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Clare. They said they hadn’t seen Richard Grey in two weeks, yet his paycheck had been picked up last Thursday.”  
“Great.”  
“Not exactly…” her eyebrows knit together, “You sure you’re ok?”  
“Haven’t had much sleep lately,” he paused, taking a long gulp of the black coffee she had placed on his desk, “I think I may be getting too old for all this.”  
“Well you’ve spent more time on the force than any other detective. Maybe it's time you take that promotion.”  
He looked up at her. She had always been a very bright young woman, but she was far too career-driven for her own good, he thought. She hadn’t made much time for anything else. No family and her longest-standing relationship to his knowledge was an off and on-again relationship, if you’d call it that, with Anderson.   
“Why, so you can sit at my desk? Got a better view than yours,” he said offering her a smile.  
“Yea it does, doesn’t it,” she said smiling back at him.  
Greg stood and grabbed his coat and bag that hung on the hook just inside the door. She asked if he was headed out for the night, and he waved as he walked out. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was going to go yet. He hadn’t been to his dingy flat in weeks. Course he had swung by to get clothes but even then, the spare room at Mycroft's estate held most of his things. Greg wasn’t in the mood to go back to what he assumed would be a rather dark and empty estate at the moment. Sure, Molly, John and Rosie might be there but if he was being honest with himself, he really just wanted to have himself a drink and be alone. He supposed he was going to have one of those nights.   
He found himself at the entrance of his favorite pub in London, conveniently a few doors down from his flat. It was always a bit empty compared to others and there was always a game on the tele. He plopped himself down at the bar and ordered a pint. He was going to get sloshed, he decided.   
When he left the pub, Greg found himself rather embarrassed to find a cross looking Mycroft leaning up against his black town car.   
“Having a bit of a drink, darling?” Mycroft smirked at him.  
Greg wished he wasn’t smiling like that. It meant Mycroft was in a bad mood and wanted something. It was very different than his genuine smile. That one he liked. He wasn’t sure he could handle the full attention of Mycroft in his current state, so he made a rather poor decision.  
“Oh, piss off,” he said and started walking in the direction of his flat. He knew that wasn’t a good call but in his drunken state, it was the only thing he could come up with.   
“Greg…”  
“Nope, don’t want to hear it,” he called over his shoulder, sure that Mycroft was going to mock his slurred speech and drunken stride. He kept on walking as his flat was only about five more doors down. He reached for his keys in his coat pocket, knowing by the time he had the right one, he’d be at the door that lead to his little grey flat.  
He missed the keyhole the first two times but got it on the third. He made his way up the stairs, hand dragging on the railing. Greg pulled open the door and found himself somehow already lying on his old lumpy couch.  
“Greg…”  
“Oh Christ, Mycroft how’d you get in?!”  
Mycroft stood in the doorway looking… sad? His suit was sopping wet and dripping on the floor, beads of water trailing down his temple. Greg realized suddenly that he was all wet too. Well, shit. He sat up.  
“You didn’t notice me behind you? Honestly, Greg, you are completely unobservant when you’re drunk. You didn’t even lock the door when you came in.”  
“What do you want Mycroft?”  
“Your company. It’s been a long day.”  
God, he really was unobservant. Mycroft had dark circles under his eyes and his hair was a wreck. Greg hadn’t seen him look so disheveled since he had pulled him out of that awful cell in Sherrinford. Sherlock had sent him there, giving him instructions on how to find the cell and whole team of special agents in a giant carrier plane.   
Greg patted the cushion next to him, and Mycroft removed his jacket, hanging it on the door. He sat down quietly next to Greg and pushed his hair back from his forehead.   
“Where’s your umbrella?’  
“Molly has it. We dropped her off at her flat.”  
“So, are you gonna tell me what happened?”  
Mycroft sighed and began to tell him what had transpired. When he was finished, all Greg could say was, “Wait who’s the father?!”  
“What?!” Mycroft said incredulously.  
“Well it couldn’t be Sherlock. They’ve never… you know”  
“I believe they consummated their relationship the morning after Sherlock’s first visit to Sherrinford. I don’t think it was exactly planned,” Mycroft said, leaning back into the couch. His hair had dried in the time it took for him to explain what had happened. It stood up in spot’s the way Rosie’s did when she first got up from her nap.   
“Well obviously…” he reached over and smoothed Mycroft’s hair. It was awfully soft. He didn’t even think Mycroft notice. He kept staring forward at the black tele, “She must be pissed that you’re all off looking for that woman now.”  
“It’s a foolish thing, jealousy.”  
“Sure, but you can’t help it sometimes, Myc.”  
“She clearly doesn’t matter to him. It’s obvious that he only cares for Molly. Even I can see that now.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Greg said, straightening a bit. He knew he was still drunk, but that comment seemed strange even now. Mycroft was always so sure of his observational skills. Even when he wasn’t so sure about his decisions.   
“I’m afraid I’ve made too many mistakes in recent years to be confident in my ability to notice things it seems,” he looked far too sad now. Greg couldn’t stop himself from putting his arm around Mycroft’s slim shoulders. He supposed he was probably a bit sloppy about it. He swore to himself he’d stop just touching Mycroft when he was drunk. Course he had less fear about it when there was a bit of drink in his system, but he didn’t want Myc to think he only wanted to hold him if he was drunk.   
Mycroft leaned into him. It took Greg a bit by surprise. They sat like that for a bit. After a while their heads tilted in towards each other and Greg found his head to be resting on Myc’s shoulder and Myc’s head resting on Greg’s.  
“You’re being too hard on yourself you know. You said yourself that Eurus seems to get the best of people… Maybe you should remember that you’re a person too, Myc, even though you spend so much time trying to convince you and everyone else that you’re not.”  
“I’m supposed to be better though.”  
“Don’t be an arse,” he said, reaching for Myc’s knee to give it a light squeeze. He was so tired, he realized. Yes, he was getting too old.   
“You called me, Myc.”  
“Yea. I say your name too much, so I’m aloud to.”  
“Alright.”  
\--  
Molly couldn’t stop the tears. It was stupid, she knew. John had told her The Woman was still alive and made her promise not to read too much into what a very high Sherlock had done. She should have listened. John had told her everything about what had happened at Sherrinford, admitting that he thought Sherlock had meant it when he had said ‘I love you’ the second time. He also conceded to her they he had told Sherlock to pursue a relationship with Irene Adler weeks earlier. He insisted that if he had known Molly still loved Sherlock, that he wouldn’t have.  
She supposed it didn’t matter now anyway. Why does it always have to be so up and down. It was stupid of her to think anything had changed. She grabbed another tissue to wipe her face. Her eyes hurt and the ice cream and movie wasn’t helping at all. Why would it though. Mr. Darcy was an arse too. Elizabeth shouldn’t have forgiven him, the bastard.  
Shutting off the tele, Molly went to the kitchen. There was nothing in the fridge and all the shops nearby were closed by now. She shut the fridge and sank to the floor. She wondered if maybe she had gotten too good at heartbreak. This time was harder though because wine was now off-limits.   
Molly tried not to think about what Eurus said. Mycroft had told her Eurus like to play games with people’s heads but somehow, she wasn’t sure if she could believe him. Despite how awful their sister had seemed, Molly couldn’t help but feel bad for her. She wondered what Eurus had meant about being able to have children. Could their uncle really have been cruel enough to sterilize his niece. From what she had heard of the infamous Uncle Rudy, Molly didn’t doubt it.   
Sitting on the kitchen floor, Molly remembered the last time she had sat there miserably. It had been after her and Tom had split. Mary had come over with a bottle of wine for her. They sat there together while Molly drank the wine, and Mary drank her milkshake.  
“I can’t believe I really did that…”  
“It’s probably for the best. You didn’t love him like that, Molls,” Mary said giving her a sad look.  
“I should have though. Why couldn’t I, Mary?!”  
“He wasn’t the one. C’mon, you knew that love.”  
Molly took another swig straight from the bottle, “I wish Sherlock hadn’t come back sometimes, ya know. Maybe I would have been able to finally move on.”  
“Oh, come off it. You and I both know that's not true Molly. You can’t help who you love. God, do you really think I would have picked John?”  
“You wouldn’t have?” she replied, rather shocked given this was only a month or so after they had married.  
“Oh god, no! He really drives me bonkers sometimes, but he’s a good man and he has a good heart. He’s really better than I deserve. He deserves much better,” she said looking rather sadly at her now empty milkshake cup.  
“Ya but you said yourself, he’s a good man.”  
“Yes, but so is Sherlock.”  
“Fine then I guess I should leave London and leave Sherlock to be a good man for someone else.”  
“Well I suppose that’s not the worst idea. Go on an adventure maybe. Maybe I’ll come too,” Mary laughed looking up at the ceiling. Molly wasn’t sure if it had been a joke.  
It was different now though. Molly was the one that was pregnant now and seemingly separated from her babies’ father as Mary had been. Maybe she should still leave. Maybe that would make her happy. She could go live in the country, in her gran’s cottage by the ocean. She couldn’t bear to sell it after she died. Molly could raise the kids there, maybe work at the local clinic or take a position as a professor at the small Uni not far away.   
It was silly though, she realized. Not the idea of her doing it all alone. She had always been alone. No, it was silly to think that she would leave London. To move away from John, Rosie and Mrs. Hudson. She would even miss Greg and Mycroft she realized. In the past month she had gotten used to having them all around. It was nice to have a new family and she really didn’t have one outside this chosen family. She tried not to think of her mum. She remembered pictures of a woman with red hair and warm brown eyes. The sound of her laughter on old family films. She and Molly’s unborn brother had died in childbirth. Her father had never really recovered. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t really tried fighting off the cancer. She wasn’t sure Sherlock would even really notice after a while, if she died.   
Molly crawled into her cold little bed, pulling the blankets uptight. She placed her hands where the tiny little humans were forming. Silently she promised them that she would find a way to stay alive for them. She already knew how awful it would be to grow up without their mother. Molly swore they wouldn’t have to go through that. As it was, she was unsure if they would really have a father.  
\--  
Irene Adler was in a rather compromising position when Sherlock and John found her. It was rather strange given that she claimed to be the dominatrix when currently it seemed that she herself was being dominated. It was easy enough to track her down. He just used her response to triangulate exactly what part of the globe she was currently terrorizing and from there he convinced a rather prominent politician to request the specified service of the infamous woman. He had not, however, deduced that she would in fact be the one strapped down to a bed in a rather expensive Parisian hotel. Not that it really mattered, in fact it rather suited his needs quite nicely.  
“Mr. Holmes! Come and join us?”  
“Afraid not. I’m actually meant to bring you my sisters regards,” he said, handing a robe to the rather pleased looking woman who had done rather thorough job securing Mrs. Addler to the bed. John it seemed was doing his best not to stare. Sherlock knew John hadn’t touched another woman since Mary’s death and was probably struggling at his state of abstinence. He hoped he wouldn’t have to return to that.  
“Oh my… Does she miss me?” Irene purred.   
“When did you first engage with my sister,” he asked, his tone steeled, his eyes remained fixed on hers.  
“Jealous?” she said giving him a wink.  
“Oh, do drop the pretense. It’s a waste of time.”  
“Fine,” she said, shifting on the bed her coy smile dropping into a calculating stare, “It’s rather less fun when they figured out it’s just a game.”  
John threw a towel over her body, “Oh you two are perfect for one another aren’t you,” John growled, glaring at her. Sherlock had to agree. It seemed that his sister had found a near-perfect match in The Woman. They were both exceptional actors. He had always known that Mrs. Addler had been playing a game, but he had never managed to figure out which game she was playing. She had never really wanted him in any romantic sense. She was simply attracted to power and whoever wielded most of it. It therefore made perfect sense that she had chosen Eurus. Mycroft had a weakness, being Sherlock but when Mrs. Addler had met him, Sherlock held more power that was less likely to be compromised by sentiment. Mycroft had always tended to make mistakes when it came to protecting his brother, but Sherlock’s weakness had also been his greatest strength, therefore the more powerful Holmes. Until Eurus was factored in.  
“Well?” he asked, impatient now for a response.  
“She was so lovely when I first met her. It was in a cafe. Jim introduced us. He’s so helpful like that. She nearly broke my neck the first time. God, I get wet just thinking about it,” she smiled, her legs twisting under the towel.  
“And when did that happen.”  
“Oh, let’s see… Well it was just after he visited her. He was quite smitten too, but it seems you’re the only Holmes that consistently picks the opposite sex, if you call one person consistent. How old fashion of you.”  
John suddenly looked at Sherlock, “So you two never…?” he drifted off.  
“No.”  
“Jim always did call him the Virgin. I’m disappointed to know you aren’t anymore, Sherlock. Pity really. I suppose I lost that bet. You’ll have to tell Eurus I’ll pay up when I see her next. She said she’d be leaving soon,” Irene smiled at John, “Give her a kiss for me, won’t you John.”  
“You’re crazy,” he replied, looking both shocked and repulsed. Sherlock didn’t blame him.   
“C’mon, John, we’ve got a flight to catch.”  
“So soon? I haven’t even told him the juicy bit yet!”  
Sherlock was quite sure that she had. He left the room and continued out towards the street. He pulled his phone out and sent a text to Mycroft. He set off down the street to a promising looking pastry shop. John was calling his name, but he hardly heard it. He was lost in thought, but for once it wasn’t about the case. He found it maddening to be so distracted. He was used to having his thoughts drift to Molly when his brain was idle, often prompting him to seek out stimulation, but now he couldn’t stop thinking about her even while in the midst of perhaps his most important case.   
She hadn’t even spoken to him, only asking Mycroft to be returned to her flat. She had boarded the plane and intentionally sat between the window and Mycroft, staring out into the rainy, darken sky on the flight home, He had already managed to make them split up in 6 days. Less than a week. He never imagined that he would cock it up that badly. When he allowed himself to consider it in the past, he had always felt he could at least manage a month before she caught on to how truly worthless, he was. He never gave her enough credit.  
“Sherlock!” John yanked him back onto the sidewalk and a cabbie laid on his horn, proceeding to swear in French at him. He hadn’t bothered to check before crossing the road. Great, now he wasn’t even bothering to look around.   
“Thank you, John.”  
“Sherlock, just because Mycroft made sure Eurus can’t touch you, doesn’t mean he threatened all the cabbies in the world too!” John said, aggravated per usual about being left in the dust.  
“Yes, I know.”  
“Where are we going?”  
“That pastry shop across the street. It has some very good pastries,” he said, careful to check that the road was clear before walking toward the shop’s entrance. He figured he ought to get Molly some as pastries and breakfast foods were generally her favorite. It would be late morning when they’d be back in London. Sherlock had Molly’s schedule memorized for years and knew that Friday’s she left for Barts at noon. He’d have plenty of time to…  
“John would you mind bringing these to Molly’s flat when we get back to London,” he asked in between ordering a dozen different fresh pastries. He made sure to avoid the cheese Danish and then changed his mind.   
“No. That’s your job Sherlock. I need to pick up Rosie from Mrs. Hudson and then we’re  
supposed to go through the flat.”  
“She won’t see me, obviously.”  
“Maybe, but you have to try. This isn’t something you just give up on…” he paused looking down at his shoes, “and you owe her an explanation.”  
“But she’s angry for a good reason. John, I was curious about The Woman.” he drifted  
off, not needing to clarify.  
They left the pastry shop and Sherlock hailed a cab. He directed the cabbie to  
drop them off at a private airfield just outside Paris. The white pastry box felt rather heavy in his lap. He was getting terribly exhausted of this consuming guilt. He had always been curious about The Woman, even considering allowing her to fuck him. Yes, it was more out of curiosity, wondering if he would be able to glean more from her if she thought she finally had the upper hand. In the end, he decided it wasn’t worth it. Sherlock also knew that he wouldn’t be able to perform.   
“But you didn’t do anything,” John offered quietly.  
“Don’t be a hypocrite,” Sherlock seethed.  
“Actually, I believe you once said to me ‘it’s only texting’. So, who’s the hypocrite now?”  
They sat in silence for the rest of the cab ride and boarded the jet without saying a  
word. Sherlock sat opposite John, looking out the window. The sun had tinted the early morning sky pink. He hoped Molly was still asleep.   
“Yes, John I suppose you’re right.”  
\--  
Molly combed out her wet hair. The bathroom was still foggy from residing steam. She noticed dark circles under her eyes and for the first time in a long time, Molly wondered if it was worth trying to put on a bit of makeup. Her eyes traveled down her body. She had noticed changes already beginning. Her breasts were fuller and heavy, often aching. Her waist remained slim, yet she felt bloated. God, she felt gross. At least the medicine she had been prescribed had gotten rid of her morning sickness.   
Reaching for her old pink bathrobe, Molly made her way to the kitchen. She put the kettle on and leaned back against the counter. She was still tired. Her emotions often served as the biggest roadblock to sleep. She had already called Mike and asked for the day off, explaining that she was feeling sick. He instantly liked it, worrying about her health as he knew she had visited the hospital three times that week. She assured him she was going to be fine, but he insisted on giving her the whole week off.   
The kettle began whistling and the same moment that someone knocked on the door. Molly took the kettle off the burner, poured herself a cup, leaving it on the coffee table in the living room and fixed her robe before she went to open the door. She wasn’t particularly surprised to see a tired-looking Sherlock. His hair was a little matted and his eyes looked a bit red from lack of sleep. He held what looked like a white pastry box with a twine string and gold French script.   
“Molly, I…”  
She took the box from his hands and slammed the door in his face, her wariness replaced with annoyance. Did he really think a box of pastries would make up for yesterday? She supposed it was perhaps a good start, she realized after plopping down on the couch and finding a dozen different pastries. She picked out a croissant and savored it, watching the doorknob rattle and shift as Sherlock picked the lock. Molly had watched him do it enough times to use it as a gauge for his general state. When he was busy on a case and needing her opinion or someone to bounce ideas off when John was busy, it took him maybe a second but if he was high, he made a racket about it. This morning, he wasn’t making a racket, but it was taking him longer than usual which meant he was tired and stressed. So, he must have found The Woman but that was of course strange because it couldn’t possibly be as simple as just finding her.   
Molly curled her knees to her chest and remained unfazed as Sherlock burst into the room. He looked awful, as if he hadn’t slept in weeks, which she couldn’t understand because they had slept so soundly the previous night. He had gone plenty of nights in a row during a case with less sleep than he currently had. She patted the cushions in front of her with her socked foot. He collapsed onto the couch, his head dropping back against the cushions, Adam’s apple protruding. She had forgotten her anger now. He had clearly not enjoyed the first part of this case, which was perhaps a good sign given she had mostly been livid at the idea of him tracking down a dominatrix that had once been such a source of attraction.   
“Molly… Jim Moriarty is in fact alive.”  
\--  
John was happy to be at the Baker Street flat. He had picked up Rosie and had her in a little front pack, with a little baby mask to protect her from any ash. Perhaps it made him a horrible father to have his daughter in the rubble of 221B. Whether consciously or not, he had been impacted by such deranged women as of late that he felt the need to spend much more time with Rosie. She giggled and laughed, looking out at the flat and all the charred artifacts that he held up for her to see as they organized things into piles. There was a bin in the kitchen for toss, keep, and needs a lot of cleaning or repairs. The keep bin was looking awfully scant as most objects were burnt to a crisp. The trick was evaluating what could be cleaned up a bit.   
Mrs. Hudson had brought him up a bit of tea late morning and he found himself glad to have not seen Sherlock yet. He must have been with Molly fixing things up. He and Mrs. Hudson chatted about Molly and how happy they had seemed together this past week and Mrs. Hudson spit out her tea and laughed after John had told her his hunch about Mycroft and Greg Lestrade.  
“Live and let live! I always knew one of those Holmes boys was into that sort of thing! Good for him, finding his heart and all,” Mrs. Hudson proclaimed, to which Rosie responded to euphuistically.  
She wasn’t quite speaking yet, but he was sure she’d start soon. She was ahead in most of her development by several months, but not in that department. Rosie was actually quite behind with speech. Sherlock told him not to worry two nights ago, saying he didn’t speak until much later too, which only made him more worried. He knew his best friend and wife far outwitted him, and that was all well and good, but his daughter outwitting him was an awfully terrifying thought. He didn’t even want to think of what school would be like. When he expressed this fear to Mrs. Hudson, she assured John that she and Molly would keep a close eye on their girl and that Mycroft would surely have a file in the works already on her.  
“‘Speaking of school, I’ve been thinking John…” Mrs. Hudson started, placing her cuppa on the kitchen table, and pushing it out of Rosie’s reach. She liked the faces and reactions people made when she dropped or threw things, which John tried not to read into, “I think we should turn the flat into a workspace or office of sorts. You know, still have clients come here to see you two and Sherlock could do his awful experiments here,” she said, gesturing to the horror show that the kitchen had always been, “And we could turn your old room into a play space for Rosie.”  
“What does that got to do with school, Mrs. Hudson?”  
“While when she comes home from school she could play there, and we could have tea while you two worked. Fill it with books, and maybe get her a little pianoforte! Would that be nice, little flower?” She said, letting Rosie curl her hand around Mrs. Hudson’s fingers, causing the little girl to smile and laugh in approval.  
“That’s not a bad idea, actually, Mrs. Hudson,” John replied thoughtfully, realizing he had to probably figure out a more permanent solution to their living arrangements as well.  
“Of course, it’s not a bad idea! And I’ve told Mycroft that he best fit this building with some of the best security he can. You boys have been quite destructive,” She said, failing to actually pull off a scolding tone.   
Sherlock suddenly appeared in the kitchen, looking truly awful. Rosie shrieked in excitement upon seeing her godfather and reached her chubby arms out for him, He scooped her up, and sat in the chair next to John, who pulled his chair out farther from the table so his back wouldn’t be to Sherlock, allowing him to be included in their little chat. Mrs. Hudson who sat facing the living room and saw Sherlock first looked quite concerned. She instantly got to work making him a cuppa, which for whatever reason had always made both himself and Sherlock feel less like shite after a long day.  
“So, has Molly forgiven you?” John prodded tentatively, guessing the answer was no.  
“Oh, Sherlock! It’s only been a week! What have you done to the poor girl?!” this time Mrs. Hudson’s scolding met its mark.  
“I’m afraid I’m very skilled at saying the wrong thing at the worst time,” Sherlock mumbled as Rosie tugged, none too softly on his curls. Rosie saw this as a challenge since he had given no physical sign that he had even noticed her most valiant effort to make him smile.   
“What did you say?” John said, taking Rosie back into his lap before she tried poking Sherlock in the eye.   
“I just told her what happened in Paris. She hardly let me finish before she pushed me out of the flat…”  
“Well what happened in Paris, “Mrs. Hudson asked, rather accusatory as she placed the cup of tea in front of Sherlock and sat back in her seat.  
“We found Mrs. Addler tied to a bed naked, which was quite lucky for us…”  
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson shot up from her chair, which Rosie saw as a perfect opportunity to dump Sherlock’s hot tea into his lap. He shot up, causing his chair to fall back, making a loud crashing noise. Rosie was ecstatic, finding the whole situation to be her best-orchestrated attempt at the wildly dramatic series of events. John had to agree with her and felt a little better thinking Rosie knew exactly when to punish her godfather for his poor judgment of human nature. She was so like Mary that his whole chest felt like it was caving in sometimes.  
Sherlock swore colorfully, causing Mrs. Hudson to sputter and scold him again for swearing in front of the baby. He then flung the freezer door open and shoved peas down the front of his pants, saying, “I’ll have to thank Molly for just tossing me out the next time I see her.”  
“Why on earth would you start it like that, Sherlock,” John said, utterly shocked that such a brilliant man could have such glaring lapses in social etiquette.  
“Because that exactly how the series of events played out!” he said, clearly not realizing his mistake, as Mrs. Hudson hit him over the head with that morning's paper. “Ouch! Could I please stop being assaulted?!”  
“What he should have said was that we weren’t expecting her to be the one that was naked and tied down, but it made sure she couldn’t leave while we questioned her, John explained for him.  
“How is that different from what I said?!”  
“Because it doesn’t sound like we wanted to see her naked, Sherlock!” he shouted back at his friend, who had noticed the peas rolling out of his pant leg.  
“Why would we have wanted that? It’s not like we haven’t seen her naked before?!” he countered looking annoyed now, not understanding why everyone was so mad at him. Mrs. Hudson threw her hands in the air and left the room. Rosie was still giggling, applauding at what spectacular entertainers they all were.   
\--  
Mycroft had left Greg’s little flat much later than he had intended and was in dire need of a wash and a change of clothes. He had managed enough modesty fetching a cup of coffee across the street and left it on Greg’s coffee table, wishing him a good day and requesting that they never again sleep on a couch.   
His driver dropped his off at the Diogenes, and Mycroft sat in his private study with newspapers from several different American newspapers spread out on his desk. Having showered and changed into a fresh three-piece suit, he now felt he could put his efforts into finding a lead on Sherlock’s recent discovery. As it was now Friday, that only gave him today on Saturday to track down Moriarty, along with his other necessary duties. He was therefore unprepared to find a rather angry Molly bursting into his office with a brown paper bag.   
“Mycroft, I need to see your file on Irene Adler.”  
“I’m afraid that the clearance level needed is far beyond…”  
“Then just tell me… did Sherlock ever care for her?” she said, suddenly looking sad and tired. She dropped herself into the red leather chair opposite his desk, after tossing the brown paper bag on it. The fluorescent lighting made her look pale and Mycroft found the colorful Miss Hooper looking sorely out of place in this grey, underground bunker.  
“Molly, my dear, of course not,” he said softly. Her eyes met his, “At best, he found her a challenging puzzle. To my knowledge, which is quite extensive in regard to Sherlock’s activities, he never engaged in anything physical or suggestive of intimacy, and if he had, I am sure it was only to crack a case,” her eyes fell to the floor again, “Miss Hooper, in all the years I have watched my brother, I have never seen him care for anyone as he does for you. You have eclipsed even John Watson, which I thought was impossible. For him to shield his feelings for as he did must have taken momentous effort at all hours of the day. I can say this from personal experience, burying emotions is a never-ending battle.”  
“Mycroft what happened to you that made you all this way,” she said softly.  
He was stunned for a moment. No one had ever asked him that question. He had shared with Greg much of his time working for the British government, his adventures traveling the world for various reasons, meeting some of the most powerful people in the world but he had never shared many memories from before his assignment. It was far too…  
“I’m not sure it is a story you wish to hear. It is not a story for the faint of heart,” he reached for the brown paper bag. It was a cheese Danish from his favorite shop in Paris. Damn, his brother.  
“Mycroft…”  
“But I suppose you are not faint of heart, Miss Hooper,” he paused, thinking. No, she was perhaps the strongest of them all, much experienced with loss and heartbreak. He wondered how much more her heart could take though. There had to be a limit, a bottom to the well of resilience.   
“Very well… My father was the product of an extramarital affair with my Uncle Rudy’s governess. He was much younger than my uncle and due to the nature of his conception, my father grew up in the village with my grandmother. He had a very normal childhood, only seeing my uncle and grandfather for various walks and fishing trips on weekends. This was of course not a socially acceptable arrangement given the Holmes family has been known throughout history for playing a small role in government. The name has become synonymous with cold and calculating agents of the crown. But my father was always much loved by my grandfather for his kind and loving heart. So as would be logical, my Uncle Rudy did not much care for my father…”  
Mycroft continued with his story. He explained to Molly how later, his father had met his mother at a state event at which his uncle had intended to begin a courtship with the very same brilliant young mathematician, who possessed an uncommon beauty and family wealth from an old French family. She had instead fallen for the younger, kindhearted, bastard Holmes, not the cold hooked nose government official with inky black hair. He had grimaced at the acknowledgment that he much resembled his cruel uncle, even holding his old position.   
Uncle Rudy never cared that his younger half-brother had fallen in love with the beautiful and brilliant Athena Dubois. He had to simply singled her out to both increase his own family’s wealth and procure uncommonly clever offspring. He had never suspected that such an intelligent young woman would refuse him. He was further enraged to find that his late father had given his title and wealth to his bastard brother. It seemed that the rather plain, soft-hearted, and ordinary William Holmes would inherit a large amount of wealth and the Musgrave estate, as well as the hand of Ms. Dubois  
So, upon his birth, Mycroft’s parents had everything they could have hoped for and more. Uncle Rudy found that rather unsatisfactory and made sure that his younger brother was sent to the British outpost in Saigon, far away from his new family. Mr. Holmes, never suspecting any resentment from his older brother, went to fulfill his duty, functioning as eyes and ears on the ground for the British government. Thus, his mother suffered a deep bout of postpartum depression and heartbreak. Calculating such a reaction, Uncle Rudy stepped in to provide support to the unsuspecting young family. His uncle had been directly responsible for Mycroft’s upbringing, down to every minute of his waking day. Rudolph Holmes had seen his nephew as a suitable substitute for an offspring and was directly responsible for molding the man that Molly saw before her.   
It was not until William came home, that Mycroft had experienced any childhood happiness. His father petitioned his brother to allow William to take his son for ice cream and for hunting trips to the country. Having come back to her lively and self-assured nature, Athena forced Rudolf to agree, using knowledge of his sexual preference as leverage. This later came back to sting Mycroft. He explained the Rudolf had been disappointed in the emotional and sensitive new baby boy and even more so with the proceeding girl.   
“But I thought Eurus was an era-defining genius?” Molly said, sipping the tea he had ordered for them.   
“Indeed, but we didn’t know that until later. My uncle had developed a distaste for women since finding Dubois women susceptible to suggestion. I suppose he was also just a nasty man, in favor of conservative patriarchal positions for women.”  
He continued to explain how Eurus only developed troubling characteristics around age 5. After she had burned down Musgrave Hall, his mother and father had been so distraught that they accepted Uncle Rudy’s help, which they had grown wary of overtime. His parents overly showered Mycroft with love when he had been home in hopes of uncovering some humanity in the elder son and had come to the conclusion that William’s half-brother was not the best influence for their family, but at Mycroft’s own brainwashed insistence, they conceded accepting Rudolph’s help with their two youngest children.   
“I was quite brainwashed as you can see. I had no idea at the depth of Uncle Rudy’s heartlessness. He had taken Eurus to a facility in London, near his townhouse, determined to monitor her brilliance in the hopes to hone her into a weapon for the British government. Sherlock was taken to a pediatric psychologist at the same hospital where he underwent severe, now illegal, a therapy that resulted in a sensitive, kindhearted little boy converting to an emotionless, reason-based machine. They couldn’t erase the memory of Victor. The therapy replaced everything with a singular desire to discover the truth of every mystery, the answer to every riddle. In many ways they erased much of my younger brother, leaving only the scars of Eurus.”  
He was quiet for a moment, lost in the memories of a cold little boy with piercing blue eyes, who had mocked Mycroft’s weight, deducing that his elder brother attempted to replace the comfort of warm human interaction with pastries and sweets. It had been the first time Mycroft had felt any doubt in an uncle that he had so highly revered. He continued on, explaining how heartbroken it had made his parents but how they had complied with Rudolf’s requests, moving to the country house in Sussex, never speaking of Eurus or Victor for fear that Sherlock would relapse to his catatonic state. He was sent to a very private and distinguished boarding school, the same Mycroft had attended, then graduated top of his class at Oxford. Sherlock had then immediately hired as a top recruit by MI6. Finding the position boring and constraining, hindering his ability to continue the drug habit he had picked up at boarding school, he left, posing a rather large security risk. It then became Mycroft’s full-time job to keep tabs on his brother, who had just enrolled in a graduate chemistry program in London, thus eventually leading to his new career as a consulting detective with an uncanny skill for deduction and crime-solving.   
“Uncle Rudy detested this of course, fearing one day that Sherlock would eventually remember Eurus. Luckily for Sherlock, Uncle Rudy suddenly died…” He kept his back to Molly, not wishing to risk her noticing the lack of remorse in his expression. Mycroft decided it best not to tell Molly about how he had taken his Uncle to visit Euros. His sister took no pity on them. She had thanked her brother after, licking their uncle’s blood from her lips.  
“I remember when he died. Sherlock was in the lab that day. I was still a student,” Molly said quietly, “He told me death is sometimes freedom. It was the anniversary of my father’s death.” Mycroft of course already knew this. He had already started a file on the unassuming University student that inadvertently promoted Sherlock to create his chosen profession. She had been studying to become an oncologist, he remembered, abruptly changing her studies to become a pathologist after her grandmother had died mysteriously. To his knowledge, Molly was the best pathologist Bart’s Hospital had ever seen, Mike Stamford often boosting that he worked with the only doctor in Barts to have a perfect track record.   
“Well perhaps untrue and inappropriate in your case, he was quite right in regard to our uncle's death. It was after he died that I was reassigned as his successor. I then had access to all our uncle’s files and what I found was truly horrifying. I decided it was best to keep it from my parents, whose life had already been filled with far too much sadness. After Eurus started that last fire, I decided it was time to grant her and my parents some peace. She was better for a while, knowing that they wouldn’t be visiting. But after a few accidents with staff that took advantage of her restrained state, she began to see me as our uncle. She never could disassociate me from him after that,” he said, his throat began to burn, and his eyes stung. He heard Molly stand and walk around the desk to stand in front of him, the frame of the British monarch suddenly was momentarily adopted by the slight frame of the unassuming pathologist.   
“What did he do to you, Mycroft,” she said softly, silent tears streaming down both their faces now.  
“I went to his townhouse for holiday, as I did every year. There was a party there. The house was filled with men and boys. My uncle had particular tastes as do many men with power and money…” Mycroft thought back to that night. All the costumes, and finery. Every variety of the masculine body, every size and form. Young and old. He had followed a beautiful young man to a coat closet. The dark-eyed man had his hair in Roman curls and a fig leaf between his legs. He was perhaps the same age as Mycroft, and he could still picture how the man had reminded his younger self of his favorite character from A Midsummer’s Night Dream.  
“My uncle had found me, drunk the next morning.”  
He wasn’t sure why he was telling Molly everything. Mycroft never told anyone about the conversion therapy. The threats of castration if his uncle ever found him near another man in that way again. How his uncle had explained in the way he so often did, that to show weakness of any kind was to dishonor the great Holmes name. His hands shook as he finished telling Molly about his first marriage. How he had selected a young woman from Oxford whose family, like his, would never allow her to be with the person she wanted to be with. How she had taken her own life after ten years when her lover had died at the hands of a brutal rapist. How he still wore his wedding ring to remind himself to never let himself love anyone the way his poor wife had.   
“Her name was Sarah. She was kind. She was perhaps my only friend.” his voice finally broke, tears that he had held back for so many years now spilled down his face. Mycroft sobbed like a child, and Molly simply held his hand, and handed him tissue after tissue, until the box was empty.  
“Go home, Mycroft. You need to go home. It’s ok to not be ok sometimes.” Molly offered, squeezing his hand. Mycroft was sure that Molly Hooper was perhaps the kindest person he ever had the pleasure to call a friend. Still reeling at his confession, the eldest Holmes still could appreciate that his younger brother had found his perfect equal. If only he could be so lucky, Mycroft thought.  
\--  
Molly left the Diogenes and hailed a cab after extracting a promise from Mycroft to return to the estate and get some real rest. As she sat in the back of the cab, she texted Greg.

Think you should go to the estate and check on Mycroft. He needs someone who cares about him right now. -MH

Is everything alright? What happened?? -GL

I think I should let him tell you in his own time. Nothing urgent. Just told me something about his past. -MH

Oh god... Is it fair to say we all should probably start talking to someone? Lol -GL

I don’t think we’ve had a good track record, considering the last therapist ended up throwing him in her own cell...I find ice cream usually is a good band-aid. Good luck. Headed to Barts, if you need me. -MH

She hoped Greg would know how to help Mycroft. Molly knew she had been a poor substitute and felt guilty having forced Mycroft to relive so many traumatic memories. She had apologized profusely before leaving but Mycroft insisted it had to be done. He assured her that she should never feel guilty for being a kind person. Now she felt an incredible burden.   
Molly got out of the cab and made her way to the Barts records rooms. She wasn’t sure she would find anything there but something in her gut had convinced her it was worth a look. Her badge gave her enough clearance to enter the back section of the records, where they kept files in cabinets. Some things had never made their way onto the computers, often because it was too sensitive to risk. Mike Stamford had mentioned that higher profile patients or families generally asked that their records remained in hard copy format. He explained that it was more prevalent for the child’s psych ward.   
Searching the rows for hours, Molly had sorted through nearly a hundred different filing cabinets. Each file had a patient last name, first name, and the years they received treatment. It was when she entered the second drawer in the 221st cabinet that she found a file that sent a shiver down her spine. The first file read:  
James, Bo: 1978- 1990  
Molly felt her heart sink to think that someone had stayed there for 12 years of their childhood. She had no idea how long Eurus was there. She kept flipping through files, her fingers quivering. Molly somehow felt she was getting close. She stopped flipping and stared at the last three files.  
Janus, Oikos I: 1981  
Janus, Oikos II: 1978  
Janus, Oikos III: 1978- 1991  
Those dates lined up with each time a Holmes child had been treated. Ignoring several texts from Sherlock, she opened her phone and searched the name, Oikos Janus. A few songs and other listings popped up. Determined that it was more than just a song, she tried again, searching for just the first name, finding it the order of the two.  
“The ancient Greek word oikos refers to three related but distinct concepts: the family, the family's property, and the house.”  
Her heart dropped. She didn’t need to search for Janus. Molly remembered from her adolescent fascination with Greek mythology that Janus was the two headed god of doors, beginnings, and endings. She knew enough about the Holmes family to know that the name given to the hospital all those years ago was a riddle, simple enough, but a riddle all the same. That very hospital had been the beginning and the end of the Holmes family.  
Molly ran to the trash bin and threw up the pastries that Sherlock had brought her.


	3. New Arrangements

Sherlock was in his mind palace. He kept all his memories and emotions associated with Molly Hooper “outside” his mind palace if he were being specific. Mind Palace Molly had snuck into the larger structure on occasion, like when Mary had shot him, but she mostly can be found in the greenhouse. She was always tending to little plants in there. Whispering sweet nothings to them to help them grow.   
He had decided long ago that Mind Palace Molly should have a greenhouse for that specific purpose. The real Molly had actually given him the idea. It had been just after she had switched her specialization, and he began consulting her routinely on pathology. He had found the need for a pathologist after a particularly trying murder and noticed his depth of knowledge lacking. Feeling it a waste of space to master the science of studying dead bodies, he visited Bart's hospital. He found Molly Hooper bent over the body of a young woman who appeared to have suffered severe head trauma. This had pleasantly surprised him, having not seen her in several months.  
“Oh c’mon,” she whispered softly, pulling the mutilated flesh away from the wound, careful to not destroy any evidence, “that’s it, just a bit more… Ah!” she exclaimed, pulling a bit of playing card from the woman’s scalp, “See that wasn’t so hard, was it, Fern? Now how did that get there?”  
And somehow that image always stuck with him. The pathologist talked to dead bodies like they were a friend. It reminded him of how his mother had talked to her lavender plants, coaxing them to grow so she could make lavender honey ice cream.   
He currently found Mind Palace Molly lounging on a pink velvet daybed by the greenhouse window, various plants and vines appearing to turn towards her as if she were sunlight. She had one hand on her stomach, resting gracefully, while the other held up her favorite book, Pride and Prejudice. She was intently reading it, and he realized she was doing it intentionally to ignore him.  
“Molly how do I make you happy…” he asked, plucking a white rose. He kneeled and offered it to the ethereal beauty that lounged before him.   
“Oh Sherlock, I am happy,” she smiled at her book, eyes still moving back and forth across the page. She didn’t take the rose, “You’re awfully dramatic Sherlock,” using her other hand to gesture at their clothes.   
Somehow, they were both wearing Victorian outfits reminiscent of those worn in the latest cinematic version of her favorite book. He had watched it with her at her flat years ago and read the book after, insisting the movie did the book little justice, simply catering to a modern audience with no appreciation or understanding of the original novel. She had told him to shove it.  
“I don’t need you to be happy. You always ruin things in the end, Sherlock. We both know that. It’s best for you to just accept that and let me carry on. Besides, I’ve got John and Greg and even Mycroft to care for me and even The Ice Man does a better job of making me happy. They make me laugh, Sherlock. You have only made me cry,” she turned to look down on him, closing the book slowly. She set it down and sat up, “Sherlock Holmes should leave me alone,” she traced his cheekbone with her finger, “Leave her in peace. Let her raise your children in peace. You would only hurt them, make them cry too. Leave them be and just let the memory of me be enough.”  
Mind Palace Molly gently pressed a kiss to his cheek, as he had done so many years ago now after he noticed the engagement ring on her finger. It had broken his heart, or what little there was of it, seeing it on her finger. It was all wrong for her anyways, to ordinary and plain.   
“Sherlock?”  
Stirred from his thoughts, he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. They were almost finished cleaning up the flat. Outside, the lamps had turned on. It was getting late, he realized. Sherlock was exhausted. His eyes hurt from being open so long and he was covered in soot.   
“I said, are you coming back to the estate tonight?” John asked, standing in the threshold of the kitchen, Rosie in his arms. She looked like she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open too.  
“No.”  
“I’ll check on Molly for you,” he said picking up Rosie’s diaper bag. He paused before leaving the flat, “You’ll be ok tonight… right?”  
“Yes, I’ll be fine. Go ‘n check on Molly,” he said waving absently towards the door from his spot in the scorched seat.   
“Alright. See ya later.”   
Sherlock listened as his friend and godchild left. He heard John get into the town car Mycroft no doubt sent. It was awfully quiet in 221B. He used to strive in silence. Now it was deafening. He picked up his new Strata Vera and plucked a few strings. Eurus had excellent tastes, something that was apparently genetic. He began to play the Moonlight Sonata. Originally written to accompany a piano, he had always enjoyed the violin section to stand well enough on its own. He played it several times. Finding no solace in the song anymore, he put the violin down.   
Molly had played that song on the piano once. It had been Christmas Eve. He had asked her to help him look for a gift for his mother. She had accompanied him quite willingly. At the time she had still been seeing Oliver, a weaselly graduate student. He had supposed that Oliver treated her well enough, but he had always been annoyed at how smitten she was with a man of little to no consequence. As it were Oliver Rockman was a rather successful drug dealer it turned out, causing Molly considerable heartbreak upon his arrest. He had also been cheating on her.  
As they walked down the street that night, Molly had pulled him into a music shop that had a large, beautiful piano displayed in the window. She sat down hurriedly, her yellow scarf falling from her delicate neck. Sherlock leaned down to scoop it from the floor but froze as he heard the first rich notes of the first measure. He looked up to see the petite Molly, clad in a red peacoat and striped tights. Her eyes were closed, face smooth and peaceful. He watched entirely bewitched by her thin, pale fingers gracefully dancing across the keys. Sherlock stood there, scarf in hand, watching the young pathologist play, transfixed by the simple grace that so often clumsy Molly showed only when working in the lab. He found himself unable to move, as snow fell outside the window, streetlights casting a soft golden glow on her nymph-like face. The moonlight slowly lit the piano, as if her playing had enticed it, using Beethoven’s song like a lover's serenade.  
He managed to collect himself before she finished the piece, wandering down another aisle to look at violins. She caught up with him apologizing for the delay and explaining how she used to love playing and never had the time to now.  
Mind Palace Molly stood before him now in 221B, clad in the same red coat and yellow scarf.   
“Oh, I used to love playing,” she smiled.  
The smile faded slowly.  
“I haven’t played in so long.”  
Sherlock jumped to his feet and grabbed his coat.  
\--  
John found Molly waiting for him in her office. She was staring out the window when he walked in. He thought she looked terribly sad. After Mary died, Molly often looked like that. She had looked like that for a month after Sherlock had come back from Sherrinford that first time and had been that way when he had thought Sherlock had died. John wished Molly had not had such a terrible look on her face… well, he supposed there had just been too many things in Molly’s life to make her look the way she did now.   
“Molly, you ok?” he asked softly.  
“No… I spoke to Mycroft today. He told me about Uncle Rudy,” she said quietly, tears falling from her eyes, down her cheeks. He set Rosie’s car seat on the ground and pulled Molly into his arms. She was so small, he thought.  
“He did such horrible things to them, John. Such terrible things,” she sobbed into his coat.  
John had heard the name mentioned a few times in passing but never thought much of it. He then noticed the three files that were sitting on Molly’s desk. He picked up the top one. Molly left his embrace to fetch Rosie who had started to fuss, cradling the girl close to her body.  
The first page of the file was standard for a medical file, but he felt sick seeing the words “childhood trauma, burns, psychosis, disassociation” and on. There was a picture of a little dark-haired girl with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. He felt like he could be sick.  
John reached for the next file which outlined treatment for sexual conversion therapy, which cited the patient had thrashed so hard on his binding that they had left lacerations on his wrists. It cited electroshock therapy as the primary treatment. He couldn’t bring himself to open the last file, not wanting to know what horrors his friend had endured.   
Finding tears falling down his own face, he pulled his daughter and his friend into his arms, crying into Molly’s hair. There were times when John wanted Mary so fiercely that he thought he wanted to join her. He’d almost done it twice. Now he needed Mary. He needed Mary to tell him what to do because John Watson felt at a loss for words and unable to do anything but cry for his friend and for Molly and Rosie. What kind of world had they brought her into?   
\--  
Greg Lestrade had never seen a wasted Mycroft. Sure tipsy, a little warmer than usual and more prone to laughter but never a piss-drunk Mycroft. Off pink wine no less. Mycroft was wearing just a magenta silk robe with blue polka dot socks that clearly were from his meticulously crafted outfit from earlier, which was strewn about the master suite.   
“What are you drinking?” Greg held up the mostly empty bottle, giving Mycroft a bewildered look.  
“Rosé from Napa Valley. Excellent vintage,” Mycroft offered, an impish grin on his face from the balcony railing.  
Greg wasn’t usually one for historical dramas, but he thought Mycroft looked like a Roman emperor who had a bit too much from the wine cellar. His hair was curling a bit at his temples. He swore he looked like something on tv.  
“Ah ok. Did you save any for me?” he said, smiling at the Emperor of England.  
“Afraid not,” Mycroft said, looking like a child who had been caught eating the last cookie.  
“That’s alright. I’m sure I could knick something from the cellar,” Greg winked at Mycroft, who he swore blushed in return. Mycroft glided into the room towards the record player, suddenly not satisfied with Sinatra. Or at least that what Greg thought it was. He found it rather adorable to see such a drunk Mycroft. Not that he was drinking necessarily but found this new version of his Myc could probably be convinced to dance. It was a secret skill of Greg’s and he and Sherlock often spoke about when no one was around. They even took a class together once, swearing to never speak of it again or to tell anyone that they had done it.   
Mycroft found what he was looking for apparently and switched the records. He gently placed the needle, his face awfully close to the record player with his tongue poking out the side in utter concentration. Some old French music began playing that reminded Greg of music his grandfather liked. His grandfather's record had apparently come from France when “jazz and swing collided” as Mycroft explained what genre the music fit best.   
“La Vie Parisionne,” Mycroft said, his eyes closed, a smile spreading across his face. He looked a little startled when Greg had pulled one of his hands from the record player but didn’t resist as Greg pulled him back out to the balcony.   
Mycroft was again blushing as Greg pulled him in close, placing a hand on the small of his back. Mycroft averted his eyes smiling but placed a hand over Greg’s heart and they began to dance. Even when drunk, Mycroft was still elegant. As the balcony stretched from the east wing, across the backside of the house, Greg guided them from their end of the house to the opposite. Mycroft had been playing music loudly enough so that on the opposite end of the house, they could hear the music drifting across the breeze. As the record finished its last song, they glided to a stop. The sun was setting, painting the sky various shades of blue, pink, orange and yellow.  
“You surprise me, darling,” Mycroft said, smiling broadly now.  
“Glad to hear it,” Greg replied with a grin.  
They stood there a while, watching the sunset. Greg knew Mycroft would probably not remember this moment very well, but he was sure it was something he would never forget.  
\--  
Molly and John came home to a fully lit house. It looked as though Mycroft had turned on all the evening lighting as if he were expecting guests for a ball. After such a quiet and gloomy ride, Molly appreciated it. It appeared that John agreed. Over the house sound system, Mycroft was playing old French music. John smiled at her and they both walked to the kitchen where Greg and Mycroft appeared to be making pasta. Greg was covered in flour and Mycroft was wearing her floral apron.  
“Molly! I hope you don’t mind,” oh gosh, it appeared that Mycroft was a bit drunk. She smiled broadly at him and told him he looked much better in it. He waved her off.   
“You guys should go change. We’re having dinner in the dining room tonight, I guess. Orders from our host,” Greg said, grinning and winking at them both. They were both a bit drunk it seemed.   
John grinned from ear to ear and went to put Rosie down for a bit. Molly went up to her room and undressed. She took a shower and washed her hair with her favorite lavender vanilla soap. After drying off, she covered herself in the expensive lavender lotion Mycroft had sent her two Christmases ago after she had stayed at the hospital for so long with Sherlock. He hadn’t approved of her cheap one and having bought herself more since then, she had to agree. She dried her hair and swept it up into a bun as she had so many years ago when she still danced. She did a little makeup too, impressed at how it made her look like a French ballerina. The music must really be getting to her, she thought.   
Wearing absolutely nothing, she stood in the closet looking at her clothes. She really wasn’t sure what to wear. Mycroft had just been wearing jeans and a pink cashmere sweater, but he always looked elegant and sophisticated. Greg too had been wearing jeans but was sporting a pinstripe button-down. She thought that maybe tonight, she would really try to look more adult. She wanted to look beautiful tonight, not just pretty or quirky. She selected a pleated blush chiffon skirt and a white cashmere sweater that showed off her shoulders and chest more than she had ever shown. Yes, she looked like a beautiful woman tonight. She almost didn’t recognize herself. This was a very different Molly.  
“Molly…” as she turned, the skirt silently swirled around her legs.  
Sherlock stood before her, his mouth agape. He looked like he had showered and changed. His white shirt was tucked into navy trousers and his blue eyes sparkled in the light.   
“You look…” she smiled at him, as it appeared that he couldn’t find his voice. The smile, she supposed worked as encouragement, “You look beautiful, Molly.”  
Sherlock took a step towards her, and she felt her legs move similarly towards him, as if by their own accord.  
“Molly, I’m so sorry for today, and yesterday,” she smiled more broadly as him now, trying not to laugh, “And for everything. I’ve been so…”  
Molly interrupted him with a kiss, “I know, Sherlock. I know you. I know you do your best,” he opened his mouth to speak, but she distracted him with another kiss, “Please. We can talk later, but for tonight, let’s just pretend that the world isn’t so cruel. Besides, I made Mycroft cry today, so we have to go along with a formal dinner.”  
He looked shocked but also seemed more than happy just to kiss Molly again.  
\--  
Sherlock had no words for how she looked tonight. For once his brain was frozen, in utter shock. She wasn’t angry with him anymore either. She was kissing him. As much as he wanted to pull each pin from her hair, one by one, they were interrupted by John, who was knocking on the door. Rosie looked quite excited for whatever it was that everyone else seemed excited about. John had put her in perhaps the only pink dress he had for her and even attempted to put a matching clip to hold back her golden curls.  
“You two all set? Greg’s turned the corner with Guinness and if we don’t hurry up, then there will be no hope of me catching up,” John explained hurriedly, “and besides you haven’t really told me what’s going on anyways,” he gave Sherlock a pointed look and then left for the dining room.  
Molly offered Sherlock a smile and led him by the hand to the lavish and gaudy dining room that his brother kept for every special occasion. Sherlock never understood his brother’s absurd fascination with Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, but he applauded his brother’s decorator for applying such a specific theme throughout the manor.   
The dining room walls were lined with beautiful glass lights from Florence that matched the enormous chandelier that hung above the table. Mycroft had even commissioned an artist to paint the ceiling to match the night sky above the Sussex home of his childhood. Most of the room was filled with a rather large oak table with ornately carved legs that looked as if roses grew up them. It was large enough for everyone in the house as well as everyone’s extended families. Due to this outrageous extravagance, Sherlock and his chosen family seated themselves at the farthest end of the table so that they could view the beautifully lit gardens from the only very large window in the room.   
Sherlock noticed that Mycroft had put the peony’s Molly had picked the other morning in the center of their feast. The rather large Dutch pot contained a mountain of fresh pasta topped with homemade meatballs and freshly made Bolognese. It seems Greg managed to get away with pre-prepared garlic bread that he had mutilated while trying to cut. Someone had also made Caesar salad too. It all looked so good.  
“I guess you’ll have to make an exception about not eating while on a case,” Molly stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.  
He nodded absently to her. Apparently, he had pushed himself to his limit to often lately because he was indeed exhausted and also starving. Sherlock pulled a seat out for Molly and made sure she was settled nicely before near collapsing into the chair next to her. He didn’t notice the worried glances exchanged between his best friend and his… girlfriend?   
John slid a bottle of stout towards him. Sherlock rarely drank beer, seeing as it reminded him none too proudly of his years a prep school year or later at uni. At the moment though, he felt he truly would drink anything passed to him. His nerves were frayed, and it seemed that he was taking an onslaught from all angles of his life. He drank deeply from the bottle, finishing nearly half of it in one go. That was the second time he missed the look that passed between John and Molly.   
\--  
Mycroft and Greg were both now deep into their drinks and given the nature of the past… well over twenty-four hours now, Molly was quite sure all the men would be smashed by the end of the night. John seemed to be trying now to just catch up with Sherlock.   
Molly fixed her gaze back on Sherlock who was slumped into his seat. She stood and started to laden both their plates with food. He didn’t so much as move which meant he must be lost in thought. This all worried her as she wasn’t quite sure how much more he could take.  
“So, unfortunately, I sort of wasn’t paying attention when you explained everything this morning. How exactly did you realize Moriarty was alive?” she asked tentatively, after settling back into her seat.  
“She used the present tense,” Sherlock muttered, gazing off into nothing as he took another rather large sip of Guinness.   
“Hold up, mate, you’re making this assumption based on her grammar?” Greg asked, after slurping up pasta, which made a rather giddy Mycroft burst into laughter.  
“I don’t get what’s so funny,” Sherlock snapped.   
Molly gulped, reaching for her tea. She really hoped this would be a pleasant dinner. She laid her other hand gently over Sherlocks. This seemed to anchor him a bit and he turned to Greg.  
“Yes. By now most people wouldn’t forget to use the correct tense for the deceased and given that the two were once business partners, she would know if her employer was still around.”   
“So where is he then?” John asked, trying in vain to avoid being hit with the Bolognese that Rosie was mushing into her mouth.   
“Oh, I’ve already figured that bit out,” Mycroft offered with a coy smile, “I believe he’s working on the American government.”  
“He’s working with the Americans?” John asked, surprised.  
“Pfft noooo…” Mycroft spilled pink wine on the table as he leaned forward, “See! Grammar is important. Remember that Rosie,” he pointed a finger at the younger Watson, who was truly enjoying how animated her uncle Myc was being.  
“So, you think he’s in America?” Sherlock asked pointedly as if the suggestion was rather stupid.  
Molly watched all these exchanges as she slowly ate her garlic bread. She wasn’t ready to complain yet about her mild nausea, deciding instead to just stick to carbs.   
“Grammar!” Greg and John said in unison, clinking their beers together as if they had both landed the punch line to perhaps the best joke. It had made Mycroft and Rosie erupt into laughter, so perhaps it was. Molly smiled into her teacup.  
Mycroft wiped a tear from his eye, “You know I'm really not sure where he is, but,” he casually sipped his wine, “I am sure that Mrs. Addler will provide us some illumination. She is currently being interrogated and I have several agents keeping tabs on all her means of communication. So, in the meantime, I think we should all settle ourselves and figure out,” he gestured dramatically around the table, “all this.” Rosie applauded, causing Mycroft to bow for her.  
“What do you mean?” Molly asked.  
“Well, living arrangements for one,” Mycroft offered, his eyebrows raised in peaceful contemplation.  
“Kicking us out, Myc?” Greg said in mock offense.  
“No! I just thought we should chat about it!” he responded, defensively, “I thought I’d offer John the guest house and the British government can purchase his old house as a bolt hole.”   
“That’d honestly be brilliant,” John looked relieved.  
“And there’s the ground keeper’s cottage that we could work on converting if you wanted, Molly,” Mycroft offered.  
Molly knew exactly what he was referring to because she had, of course, come across the cottage many times. Mycroft’s manor had many acres attached to it. There were several other buildings on this property including a small stable with a barn on the eastern side and a lovely two-story, three-bedroom home on the west side that was built to accommodate for in-laws. The other building was a small cottage near the fishing pond. It was on the far side of the gardens on the other side of the trees. It had been vacant for many years but was still rather lovely.  
“Oh, that’s very generous, Mycroft,” she said sweetly, preparing to decline his offer.  
“No, I insist Molly. You need a place of your own. Please accept,” Mycroft looked down his nose sternly at her.   
She smiled and nodded.   
“So that means I’ll need to find some movers. It’s settled then,” Mycroft smiled, and they all lifted their various drinkware (with the exception of Sherlock who was emptying his) and clinked them together, toasting their new living arrangements. Nothing was said about Greg or Sherlock as it was assumed that Greg would stay with Mycroft and Molly wasn’t sure yet if Sherlock would even want to stay. She squeezed his hand hoping to reassure him somehow. He didn’t squeeze back though.  
\--  
John was awfully tipsy. Thankfully Molly had offered to clean Rosie up after supper because John wasn’t sure he would be able to clean up himself. He watched his friend scoop up his daughter and head upstairs towards his and Rosie’s suite.   
He followed Greg and Mycroft to the kitchen. By now, all of them including the stumbling Sherlock behind him were all very drunk.   
Greg was pouring more drinks at the kitchen table and Mycroft was rummaging through the icebox, searching for the tub of ice cream. He exclaimed happily upon finding it and triumphantly slammed it into the center of the table. John awkwardly fist pumped into the air. Sherlock grumbled something about calories before making a racket finding spoons. He seemed to think three forks and a baby spoon shaped like an airplane were suitable enough. Sherlock, of course, kept Rosie’s spoon for himself. John laughed at him hysterically as Sherlock missed half his mouth, causing chocolate ice cream to smear across his cheek. That didn’t seem to improve his friend’s mood.  
“What have you got up your ass?” Greg slurred as he poured the whiskey.   
“Not Mycroft’s dick!” John exclaimed, causing Greg, Mycroft, and John to burst into fits of laughter, further enraging Sherlock.   
“Ha Ha,” Sherlock said mockingly, cringing after a large sip of the dark liquid that Greg had passed to him.  
“Oh, come off it. What’s wrong?” John said after his laughter had subsided.  
“Nothing’s wrong.”  
“Bullshit”  
“Arg!” Sherlock stood suddenly, and left the kitchen, spilling whiskey as he went.  
“And I thought Molly was supposed to be the emotional one right now,” Mycroft said thoughtfully causing his two drinking companions to laugh again  
\--  
“Molly?”  
Sherlock watched as the beautiful pathologist looked over her shoulder at him. She had taken off her sweater so as to not get the white cashmere dirty or wet, leaving her standing there in just that gossamer pink skirt and white lace bra. Little wisps of hair framed her lovely face and Rosie had managed to decorate it with bubble bath suds on Molly’s cheek.  
“I’ll just be a few more minutes,” she said, turning back to focus on the squirming Rosie.   
He crossed the room and knelt next to her, his knees bumping into the edge of the tub. Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and gently used the cup Molly had been using to fill with warm water from the faucet. Even gentler, Sherlock poured water down Rosie’s back, washing away the suds.  
Together they worked to finish bathing Mary’s daughter. He noticed her hair was beginning to look a bit reddish. He wondered quietly to himself if that was from Mary’s side.   
“What’s bothering you,” Molly asked him softly, not meeting his eyes.   
She lifted Rosie from the tub and placed her in his waiting arms. Sherlock wrapped his goddaughter in the fluffy towel as she fussed about.  
“I really don’t know. There’s just so much going on.”  
“Like what?”  
Normally, if John had said such a thing, Sherlock would have perhaps gotten angry or responded in a derogatory tone, but this was Molly. She wasn’t being stupid. She knew what was going on, but she wanted to hear him explain it. Clever Molly.  
“Well, there’s the case.”  
“It's not really a case anymore though is it.”  
“No, it isn’t,” he gently padded Rosie’s hair with the towel, “It’s family… Eurus makes things personal. She knew that giving up The Woman and Moriaty would somehow earn our trust. I just don’t see why she needs it and it’s not like it would magically work and convince us to trust her.”  
“She said everything comes in three, though, which means it’s more than just those two.”  
He looked up at Molly. So beautiful. Sherlock loved how flushed she looked. So alive and colorful. So bright and clever.   
“I’m scared, Molly.”  
She sighed. Reaching out, Molly picked up Rosie and carried her to the little changing table by her bed. Sherlock followed, picking up her sweater before leaving John’s bathroom. Molly had finished fastening Rosie’s diaper and had moved on to selecting pajamas. Sherlock selected a blue onesie with yellow and white stars. Rosie fussed a bit as Molly pulled her arms through the sleeves. Gently, Molly placed the little girl into her bed and tucked her in. It broke his heart into little pieces seeing Molly with Rosie. She was so gentle and loving. He knew this is how she’ll be with their babies. Part of him wishes he could see her now, with their little ones. He feels his jaw and fists clenched with anxiety.  
Molly, of course, noticed when she turns back around to face him. She gently led him out of the room, turning on the monitor and off the lights as she goes. They settle into the little living room in John’s suite. Sherlock had already slumped into the overstuffed leather couch where Molly joined him. She settled down next to him, leaning in to rest her head on his shoulder. He took this opportunity to wrap his arms around her.   
“Molly, I can't lose you.”  
“You won’t. You won’t let that happen.”  
“How can you be so sure?” his voice was soft. This was of course because he knew his confidence was shaken.   
“Because you always figure it out. Always,” she looked up at him. Sherlock admired the confidence she seemed to have in him. Perhaps it made him feel a bit better.  
He planted a kiss on her forehead. His lips lingered on her hairline as he indulged himself in the scent of her shampoo. Long ago, before he had really made any name for himself, at least amongst mainstream Londoners, he used to pop by the lab when he knew Molly would be in there. She made a habit of taking down her hair around teatime, and since she never properly dried it back then, it would still be wet, causing the small space around her to fill with the smell of lavender and vanilla as her damp hair fell forward. It was one of his favorite smells.   
“Maybe you could let Mycroft handle the heavy lifting for a bit,” he heard Molly whisper softly, “I’m sure he can handle finding Moriarty on his own,” she fiddled with his lapels as she spoke, “Besides, you need to rest.”  
“Molly, I’m not the one that needs to be resting,” he said pulling away, abruptly. He was still a bit drunk. Sherlock was flustered now. How could she not realize how important it was for her to stay safe and healthy.   
She looked up into his eyes, looking so small and delicate in his dark embrace, “I think we both do, Sherlock. There’s a lot to be stressed about and we both need to make sure we’re ready, for everything. Together. Right?”  
“Yes, Molly, of course together.”  
His Molly sighed and eased back onto his chest. She was right of course. There was a lot to sort out and many things that they needed to discuss. Sherlock was so tired though. So, very tired. He closed his eyes and rested his cheek on her soft chestnut hair.   
“Oi, not in here mate!”  
Sherlock and Molly both jumped. John had entered the room with a bang. He looked utterly shocked to find Molly, topless in his best mates’ arms. Sherlock immediately realized the conclusion John had jumped to and reached for her sweater.   
“Oh, piss off, John. She was washing your baby,”  
“Oh right,” John mused. Sherlock swore he could see a light bulb above his head.   
\--  
“Taming of the Shrew!”  
“Pffft, nah that one’s awful too.”  
“You don’t like any Shakespeare?” Mycroft asked, incredulously.  
“God, no. I hated everything they forced us to read in school,” Greg said matter of factly.   
Mycroft was deflated. It was truly a shame that Greg didn’t like any Shakespeare, who was, in Mycroft’s not so humble opinion, the best playwright in history. He actually owns several of the playbills from the original plays at Globe theater.  
“I suppose I’ll just have to take you to see one some time. I’m sure it would change your mind,” he mused.  
Greg shrugged and smiled, a clear non-verbal affirmation to these new date plans. This, of course, made Mycroft’s cold heart swell. He plopped his near-empty wine glass down on the coffee table in his suite and heaved himself up from the couch. This causes a rather startled look to cross Greg’s face. Mycroft gave him a rather seductive (he hoped) grin. He slipped off his shoes, nearly toppling over the coffee table. As he straightened, he removed his pink crewneck sweater, nearly getting his head stuck in the process. Thank goodness for the wine because a sober Mycroft would be mortified at his own embarrassing display. But liquid courage as it were, was in his corner tonight. He decided to plop himself down into Greg’s lap. He laced his fingers together behind Greg’s neck and did his best to smile prettily at the grizzled detective.   
“I think I could manage a night on the town. Fit it in and whatnot,” Greg said, trying his best it would seem to play it cool.   
“I most certainly would hope so. I would gladly fit you in… to my schedule as it were.”  
Mycroft was doing his best to not be too glaringly obvious but felt he was failing gloriously. Greg seemed to take the hint though as he was beaming. Mycroft tried his best not to flinch as Greg reached up to stroke his cheek. He found it easier and easier to accept his companion's touch. In fact, he welcomed the release of adrenaline and dopamine.   
“I’m sure you could,” the corners of Greg’s mouth curled, and pupils dilated to an enormous degree.   
Mycroft nodded in response, too distracted by those eyes to formulate a better response. He remained frozen in Greg’s lap, soothed by the loving touch on his cheekbones and jaw. He realized Greg was going to kiss him before perhaps Greg had even made up his mind about it himself. Mycroft watched, fixated as Greg bit his lower lip and dropped his gaze to Mycroft’s lips. The elder Holmes inhaled sharply before Greg tilted his chin upwards to gently and tentatively pressed his lips to Mycroft’s.   
It was a though someone had released Mycroft’s chains. He no longer felt burdened and unable to enjoy the touch of another. He embraced Greg’s kisses that grew deeper and more passionate by the second. It was as if time had slowed as the pace of their coupling kicked up. His hands were all over Greg, through his grey hair, over his sun-kissed cheeks and down to the buttons of his pinstripe shirt. He fumbled on the buttons, tearing the fabric in places from his own desperation. Greg’s own hands had found their way to the hem of his white undershirt that had ridden up his abdomen and was tugging it upwards.   
Detective Lestrade then surged upwards, lifting the elder Holmes brother and carried him into the other room, laying him gently down on the duvet. He pulled Mycroft's undershirt off and Mycroft finally undid the last of Greg’s buttons. They stared at one another for a moment, basking in each other’s partial nakedness. Mycroft admired the white tufts of hair that trailed down Greg’s chest and stomach towards his waistband. Happy trail indeed.  
Greg crashed back into him, catching his mouth in a deeper kiss, pushing him unto his back. It was all so much. He could feel his pants tightening to an extreme point of discomfort. Greg seemed to sense this and worked on freeing him of this discomfort and his belt.   
Mycroft realized suddenly that at this point, there was simply no going back.  
\--  
Molly slipped out of the covers silently and pulled on her robe before sneaking out the door. Before leaving the suite entirely, she retrieved the three folders that she had brought home with her. She held them close to her chest as she made her way to the mudroom closet. Mycroft had shown her this place the second day she had been here and explained that it was where he stored all the keys for the various other buildings. She found the one labeled “Gardner” and tucked it into the pocket on her side.   
Thankfully it was still technically summer, and the night air was still warm. She appreciated this as she made her way through the garden to the fishpond on the other side of the trees. The lightning bugs dance over the lily pads on the surface of the water, making the whole little meadow glow. The cottage was quite lovely in this light. She admired it as she walked towards it. It was made of various sized grey stones with ivy growing up the second floor. It was so very quaint, like the cottages that schoolteachers in the country liked to own. Molly hated to admit how perfect this little cottage would be. There were two little bedrooms on the second floor with a shared bathroom. There was another room too that she thought would make a lovely little playroom. That would mean that they would have to construct some sort of master bedroom, maybe convert the old attached greenhouse into one.  
Molly unlocked the thick oak front door. The cottage was empty. The whole bottom floor was open, with no walls to cut off the house into separate rooms. The kitchen was off the left, done in the French cottage style. Everything was cream and oak with exposed beams and worn floorboards. Opposite the kitchen space was a large flagstone fireplace. In front of her was the large windowpanes that faced a small little outdoor patio. She could see the beautiful greenhouse on the left side. She smiled to herself, imagining what she would do to this place to really make it feel like home. More than it already did of course.  
She sat down in the middle of the cottage and spread out the contents of the file labeled “Janus, Oikos III: 1978- 1991”. It was, of course, the largest of the three, as paper near busted out of it. There were records of physical checkups, meal plans and so on. What really caught her attention was the handwritten notes in several different types of handwriting. This was because during Eurus’ incarceration (which is how it was best described, Molly, thought) she had no less than seven different psychiatrists. They all wrote of the sheer brilliance of the young Eurus. One doctor described how she consumed no less than ten books a day and listen almost exclusively to classical music. There were exceptions though. Apparently, she enjoyed Queen, Joan Jett, and the Bee Gees. Curiously, it appeared that those additions were added after the year 1985, which was when she was allowed “socialization time”. This apparently consisted of her being allowed to watch movies and tv with the patient next door.  
E.H. seems most content in the company of B.J. Neither display their usual irrational and unkempt behavior during this time and seem simply engaged enough to have a simple and casual conversation on topics of little consequence. It appears most helpful to both patients.   
Molly wondered is B.J. was the Bo James who had also been in Bates Mental Ward for almost the same number of years as Eurus. Perhaps, she thought, she would ask Eurus when she saw her next. She doubted it would amount to anything but given the two’s obvious closeness in age, perhaps this B.J. had been Eurus’ only friend. Maybe, if they could find that friend, they would have some helpful information about Eurus and what she may have planned.   
Lost in thought, Molly hadn’t noticed Mycroft slip in, “Ms. Hooper, what on earth are you doing out here so late at night?”  
Molly turned and looked over her shoulder at him. She honestly wasn’t sure how he would respond so she just watched as he knelt on the floor next to her. Mycroft pushed around some of the papers, selecting a photograph of a bony, skeletal looking girl with shoulder-length dark hair. He looked so sad, Molly thought, as she watched him look at the picture of his younger sister.  
“I see you’ve found the files at Barts.”  
“Rather ominously labeled, wouldn’t you say,” she asked tentatively.  
“The beginning and end of the homes. I don’t think it’s improperly labeled at all,” Mycroft said gloomily, dropping the photo and sinking to the floor, “We are in a sense, a new line of Holmes, different from that previous to us. The end of the old and the beginning of the new. At least that’s what I originally had in mind.”  
“So, you put them there?” she asked.  
“I left them there.”  
Molly reached for Mycroft's hand. He looked rather disheveled, but the way a child would after being interrupted by a good dream. She feared that she had just ruined whatever mood Mycroft had been. He gave her hand a light squeeze.   
“Do you know who B.J. is? Maybe they would be helpful to talk to,” she asked, mildly afraid Mycroft would tell her it was a stupid idea.   
“Yes. A boy whose family had sent him there. He apparently killed their family pet. He was in and out of there quite regularly if I’m remembering correctly. Strange boy, very strange indeed,” Mycroft stared at the papers scattered on the floor, “Yes, I think I shall take a look at his file.”  
Molly squeezed Mycroft's hand and started to rearrange and organize the papers again. She felt perhaps a bit better having felt like she helped in some small way. The guilt that she had been feeling about hiding the files had lessened by half, knowing at least one of people whose privacy she had so clearly infringed upon did not seem terribly mad at her for it.   
“Please don’t tell Greg about this file,” Mycroft scooped his from her hands, “I don’t need him knowing about all that. Just not yet,” he looked a bit broken looking down at the papers that described the torture and abuse inflicted upon him for something that had been entirely out of his control, “I’m afraid he won’t look at me quite the same way if he knew all this.”  
“Do I look at you any differently? Or Sherlock?” she asked softly.   
“No, but that is because you have always been able to see these things. You just maybe didn’t have the evidence yet,” he offered her a smile.   
“I don’t think Greg would think less of you.”  
“Of course he would,” Mycroft insists, looking a bit ominous in the faint light of the moon and the lightning bugs, “If Greg knew that every touch felt like a sin, or that I wanted to scream and claw at him the first time he kissed me,” he shook his head and stared at the file.  
“Mycroft… I think maybe you should see someone. I know we don’t have the best luck with therapists it seems but there are things that you need help with. You shouldn’t feel that way with the person you…” She paused, not wanting to assume anything. It made her want to weep thinking of Mycroft being betrayed by his thoughts that way.   
“What… love?” he laughs coldly, “I’m incapable of that.”  
“No, they made you think that you were,” Molly says firmly, staring fiercely at him.   
“Perhaps…”  
His tone is so hollow that it scared her. Molly wished she could help him, but she feared that she was quite out of her depth. She worried that Sherlock would perhaps react the same way if he knew what exactly happened to him.   
“Do you think I should tell Sherlock?”  
“Not yet. Maybe it would be best for me too. Perhaps our parents should hear this all too. Maybe…” he trailed off as if he no longer had the spirit to finish his thoughts out loud. He was silent for a while, and then, “Would you consider coming to Sherrinford alone with me tomorrow?”  
“Yes, I think I could manage that,” she smiles softly at him.   
Mycroft stood, pulling himself to full height. He looked remarkably dignified in his violet silk pajamas. He offered her his hand. Molly took it and let him pull her to her feet.  
“I don’t think I’ve properly congratulated you, Ms. Hooper,” He leans in and places a soft kiss on her cheek, “I know you will be the best mother in the world and we are all so very lucky to have you in our family.”  
Molly smiled warmly at the uncle of her unborn children.   
\--  
Greg sat up when he heard the door to the suite open. Mycroft soon appeared at the bedroom threshold. He smiled at Greg, but it was a soft, faint and tired looking smile. He slid under the cover and settled down with his back to Greg, no doubt looking out to the tree line.  
“So are you going to tell me. Or is that classified still,” these are not questions, but rather a statement that developed from repeatedly asked questions?   
“Molly discovered files at Bart today about my family record in the mental ward.”  
“Oh. So, the ones on Sherlock and Eurus?”  
“And me, yes.”  
Greg stiffened. A sudden realization hit him like a ton of bricks. Myc had gone through it too. Why had he just assumed that he had avoided the same torment that his two other siblings had endured? He wanted to reach out and pull Mycroft towards him, but he feared that it would perhaps be unwanted. What they had done earlier that night was still fresh in his mind, and he wondered if perhaps Myc would be more physically comfortable around him.   
“What did they do to you?”  
“I went through conversion therapy when I was a teenager. Only a few months really.”  
“Myc… that stuff really messes with a person. I had a case once were an American exchange student blew out his own brains after killing a male prostitute,” he suddenly realized that was definitely not the thing to say.   
“I’m not going to blow my brains out. I promised it to the British Royal Academy.”  
“So just me then?”  
“No, I won’t kill you either,” Mycroft flopped onto his back in frustration, rubbing his eyes with the back of his thumbs.   
Greg took this as an opportunity to scooch closer to Myc and rested his chin on his shoulder and slipped a few fingers into his nightshirt. He drummed his fingers lightly on Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft dropped his hands onto Greg's hand, pinning it right up to his heart. His eyes were squeezed shut like he was frustrated over this silly argument. Perhaps he really was.  
“I’m just…” he sighed heavily, “broken, I suppose,” he opened his eyes and turned to face Greg, “I’m a very broken man and probably won’t be able to give you everything you deserve but I promise to do my best.”  
“Hey, that’s all anyone can really ask for. It’s not like I’m all sunshine and roses over here either. I think you forget that I have plenty of ordinary baggage that I’m sure you’ll hate,” Greg offered, planting a kiss on Myc’s shoulder.  
“Pfft, like what?”  
“Well, I’ve got two kids.”  
“Oh right,” Mycroft’s brow creased, “I forgot about that.”  
Greg smiles. It’s easy for people to forget. He hardly sees them. His ex-moved them out to the country and remarried. She doesn’t follow visitation rules, but he doesn’t really have the money to fight it. So, he and his daughter write back and forth and he plays video games with his son.   
“S’alright. Easy to forget really. Never see ’em,” he shrugged it off.  
“We should change that then.”  
“Really?” he asked, surprised. He never thought Mycroft was keen on kids.  
“A child needs their father, Greg. Everyone needs their parents,” he says this sternly, and wraps his arms around Greg, planting a kiss on his forehead.


End file.
